OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  MGELE: 


POPULAR  NOVELS. 

BY  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


1.— GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE. 

2.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 

8.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 

4.— NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

6.— A  MAD  MAttRIAGE. 

6.— ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY. 

7.— KATE  DANTON. 

&— SILENT  AND  TRUE. 

9.— HEIR  OF  CHARLTON. 
10.— CARRIED  BY  STORM. 
11.— LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN. 
18.— A  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 
13.-A  CHANGED  HEART. 
14.— PRIDE  AND  PASSION. 
15.— SHARING  HER  CRIME. 
16.— A  WRONGED  WIFE. 
1.-.— MAUDS  PERCY'S  SECRET  (New). 

"Mrs.  Fleming's  stories  are  growing  more  and  more 
popular  every  day.    Their  delineations  of  character, 
life-like   conversations,  flashes   of   wit,    con- 
stantly varying  scenes,  and  deeply  inter- 
esting    plots,    combine     to     place 
their    author    in    the    very 
first  rank  of  Modern 
Novelists." 

All  published  uniform  with  this  volnme.     Price,  $1.50 
each,  and  sent/rw  by  mail  on  receipt  of  price. 

BY 

6.  W.   CARLETON   &   CO.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


LOST 
FOR  A  WOMAN. 


2V  NoucL 


BY 

MAY    AGNES    FLEMING, 

AUTHOR   OP 

SILENT  AND  TRUE,"  "A  MAD   MARRIAGE,"  "A  TERRIBLE   SECRET, 
"GUY  EARLSCOURT'S  WIFE,"  "A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN," 
"  ONE  NIGHT'S  MYSTERY,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


"  That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 

And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her  !" 

Byron—  Childe  Harold. 


NEW     YORK: 

Copyright,  1880,  by 

G.    W.     Carle f on    &    Co.,    Publishers, 

LONDON  :     S.    LOW    &    CO. 
MUCCCLXXXIV. 

Itf* 


a 
\ 


Stereotyped  by 

SAMUEL  STODDER,  TROW 

ELKCTROTTPEB  &  STEREOTYFEB,  PIUNTING  AND  BooK-BraDina  Oo. 
90  ANN  STBKBT,  N.  Y,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  L 


CHAPTER  PAO» 

L     Which  Presents  Jemima  Ann 7 

IE.  In  Which  We  Meet  Two  Professional  Ladies. . . .     16 

HI.     In  Which  We  Go  to  the  Circus 24 

IV.  Which  Records  the  Dark  Doings  of  Mile.  Mimi. .     35 

V.     In  Which  We  Visit  Madame  Valentine 48 

VI.     Which  Introduces  Mr.  Vane  Valentine 53 

VH.     Which  Treats  of  Love's  Young  Dream 61 

Vm.     Lost  For  a  Woman 72 

IX.     Which  Records  a  Tragedy 86 

X.     In  Which  Snowball  is  Disposed  of 110 

PART  II. 

XI.     Isle  Perdrix 120 

XII.     Chapeau  Dieu 138 

XIII.  Four  Days 155 

XIV.  Monsieur  Paul 165 

XV.     Snowball's  Hero 179 

XVI.     Villa  des  Anges. 191 

XVH.     La  Vivandiere 199 

XVIII.     A  Flying  Visit 212 

XIX.     "  La  Reine  Blanche  " 224 

XX.     "  Adieu !  O  plaisant  pays  de  France  I" 238 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PART  III. 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XXI.     "  Not  as  a  Child  Shall  We  Again  Behold  Her  » . .   254 

XXH.     "  There  Came  a  Laddie  Here  to  Woo  " 263 

"Kin  IT      "  To  Love  or  Hate— to  Win  or  Lose  " 271 

XXIV.     "Nothing    Comes    Amiss,    So    Money    Comes 

Withal" 280 

XXV.     "  Whatever's  Lost,  it  First  was  Won 291 

XXVI.     "  Fire  that  is  Closest  Kept,  Burns  Most  of  All ".  299 
XXVH.     "Fortune   Brings  in   Some   Boats  that  are  not 

Steered  " 309 

XXV IH.     "In  His  Dreams  He  Shall  See  Thee  and  Ache ". .  320 

PART  IV. 

XXIX.  My  Lady  Valentine 328 

XXX.  "  Full  Cold  My  Greeting  Was,  and  Dry  " 335 

XXXT.  "  For  All  is  Dark  Where  Thou  Art  Not  " 347 

XXXTJL  "  Oh ,  Serpent  Heart  Hid  With  a  Flowering  Face  1"  362 

XXXITL  "  Tired  Out  We  Are,  My  Heart  and  I " 375 

XXXIV.  "  Not  Thus  in  Other  Days  We  Met " 384 

XXXV.  "  It  was  the  Hour  When  Woods  are  Cold  " 393 

XXXVI.  "  Adrift,  as  a  Leaf  in  the  Storm  " 404 

XXXVH.  "After  Long  Grief  and  Pain  " 414 

XXXVHL  "For  Sad  Times,  and  Glad  Times,  and  all  Times 

Pass  Over  " 426 

XXXTX.  "  For  Time  at  Last  Makes  All  Things  Even  " 437 

XL,  "  Ere  I  Cease  to  Love  Her,  My  Queen  1". 448 


LOST   FOR  A  WOMAN. 


PART   I. 

In  mine  eyes  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that   I    ever  looked  on." 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

CHAPTER     I. 
WHICH   PRESENTS  JEMIMA  ANN. 


T  is  a  dreary  prospect.  All  day  long  it  has 
rained  ;  as  the  short  afternoon  wears  apace, 
it  pours.  Mrs.  Hopkins'  niece,  laying  down 
the  novel,  over  which  for  the  past  hour  she 
has  been  absorbed,  regards  the  weather  through  the 
grated  kitchen  window  with  a  gentle  melancholy  upon 
her,  begotten  of  its  gloom,  and  returns  despondently  to 
her  novel.  A  soft  step  stealing  down  the  back  stairs,  a 
soft,  deprecating  voice,  breaks  in  upon  the  narrative  and 
her  solitude. 

"  If  you  please,  Miss  Jim  ?" 

"Oh!"  says  Jemima  Ann,  "is  that  you?  Come  in, 
Mr.  Doolittle.  Dreadful  nasty  evening,  now,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Well,  it  ain't  nice,"  says  Mr.  Doolittle,  apologeti- 
cally ;  "  and  I  guess  I  won't  muss  your  clean  floor  by 
coming  in.  What  I've  looked  in  for,  Miss  Jim,  is  a  pair 
o%  rubbers.  Mrs.  Hopkins  she  don't  like  gum  shoes  left 

[7] 


8         WHICH   PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN 

clutterin'  about  the  bedrooms,  so  she  says,  and  totes  'em 
all  down  here.  Number  nines,  Miss  Jerrrima,  and  with 
a  hole  in  one  of  the  heels.  Thanky  ;  them's  them." 

Jemima  Ann  produces  the  rubbers,  and  Mr.  Doolittle 
meekly  departs.  He  is  a  soft-spoken  little  man,  with 
weak  eyes,  a  bald  spot,  a  henpecked  and  depressed 
manner.  Jemima  Ann  wishes  all  the  boarders  were  like 
him — thankful  for  small  mercies,  and  never  finding  fault 
with  the  victuals,  or  swearing  at  her  down  the  back  stairs. 
The  boarders  do  swear  at  Jemima  Ann  sometimes, 
curses  both  loud  and  deep,  and  hurl  boots,  and  brushes, 
and  maledictions  down  the  area,  when,  absorbed  in  the 
aesthetic  woes  of  her  heroine,  she  forgets  the  gross 
material  needs  of  these  sinful  young  men.  But  long 
habit,  seven  years  of  boarding-house  drudgery,  has 
inured  her  to  all  this  ;  and  inrprecations  and  bootjacks 
alike  rain  unheeded  on  her  frowzy  head.  A  sensible  head, 
too,  in  the  main,  and  with  an  ugly,  good-humored  face 
looking  out  of  it,  and  at  boarding-house  life  in  general, 
through  two  round,  bright  black  eyes. 

It  is  a  rainy  evening  in  early  October,  the  dismal 
twilight  of  a  wet  and  dismal  day.  Mrs.  Hopkins'  base- 
ment kitchen  is  lit  by  four  greenish  panes  of  mud- 
bespattered  glass,  six  inches  higher  than  the  pavement. 
Through  these  six  inches  of  green  crystal  Jemima  Ann 
sees  all  she  ever  sees  of  the  outdoor  world  on  its  winding 
way.  Hundreds  of  ankles,  male  and  female,  thick  and 
thin,  clean  and  dirty,  according  to  the  state  of  the  atmos- 
phere, pass  these  four  squares  of  dull  light  every  day, 
and  all  day  long,  far  into  the  night,  too  ;  for  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins' boarding-house  is  in  a  popular  street,  handy  for 
the  workingmen— -  artisans  in  iron,  mostly,  who  frequent 
it.  A  great  foundry  is  near,  where  stoves  and  ranges, 
and  heaters  and  grates  are  manufactured,  with  noise  and 
grime,  and  clanking  of  great  hammers,  and  clouds  of 
blackest  coal-smoke,  until  that  way  madness  lies ;  and 
the  "hands"  emerge  in  scores,  black  as  demons,  and  go 


WHICH    PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN.        9 

home  to  wash  and  dine  at  Mrs.  Hopkins'  boarding- 
house.  Limitless  is  the  demand  for  water,  great  and 
mighty  the  cry  for  yellow  soap,  of  these  horny-handed 
Vulcans,  who,  like  lobsters,  go  into  these  steaming  cal- 
drons very  black  and  come  out  very  red.  For  seven 
long  years  Jemima  Ann  has  waited  on  these  children  of 
the  forge,  and  been  anathematized  in  the  strongest 
vernacular  for  slowness  and  "  muddle-headedness,"  and 
got  dinners  and  teas,  and  washed  dishes,  and  swept  bed- 
rooms, and  made  beds,  and  went  errands,  and  read 
novels  and  story-papers,  and  watched  the  never-ending 
stream  of  boot-heels  passing  and  repassing  the  dingy 
panes  of  glass,  and  waxed,  from  a  country  lass  of  seven- 
teen, to  a  strong-armed,  sallow-faced  young  woman  of 
twenty-four  ;  and  all  the  romance  of  life  that  ever  came 
near  her,  to  brighten  the  dull  drab  of  every  day,  was 
contained  in  the  "  awful  "  nice  stories  devoured  in  every 
spare  moment,  left  her  in  the  busy  caravansera  of  her 
aunt  Samantha  Hopkins. 

The  rain  patters  against  the  glass;  the  twilight  deep- 
ens. Jemima  Ann  has  to  strain  her  eyes  to  catch  the 
last  entrancing  sentences  of  chapter  five.  The  ankles 
that  scurry  past  are  muddy,  the  skirts  bedraggled. 
Jemima  Ann  wishes  they  were  fewer;  they  come  between 
her  and  the  last  bleuk  rays  of  light.  A  melancholy  au- 
tumnal wind  rises,  and  blows  some  whirling  dead  leaves 
down  the  area  ;  the  gutter  just  outside  swells  to  a  minia- 
ture torrent,  and  has  quite  the  romantic  roar  of  a  small 
river.  Jemima  Ann  pensively  thinks.  Even  she  can  read 
no  more.  She  lays  down  her  tattered  book  with  a  deep 
sigh  of  regret,  props  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  sinks  her 
chin  in  her  palms,  and  gazes  sentimentally  upward  at 
the  greenish  casement.  It  is  nearly  time  to  go  and  light 
the  gas  in  the  front  hall  and  dining-room,  she  opines. 
The  men  will  be  here  directly,  all  shouting  out  together 
for  warm  water  and  more  soap,  and  another  towel,  and — 
be  dashed  to  you  !  Then  there  is  cold  corned-beef  to  be 
i* 


io       WHICH  PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN. 

cut  up  for  supper,  and  bread  cut  in  great  slices  from 
four  huge  home-made  loaves,  and  the  stewed  apples  to 
be  got  out,  and  the  tea  put  to  draw,  and  after  that  to  be 
poured,  and  after  that,  and  far  into  the  weary  watches  of 
the  night,  dishes  to  be  washed,  and  the  table  reset  for 
to-morrow's  breakfast. 

Jemima  Ann  sighs  again,  and  this  time  it  is  not  for 
the  patrician  sorrows  of  the  lovely  Duchess  Isoline.  In 
a  general  way  she  has  not  much  time  for  melancholy 
musings.  The  life  of  Mrs.  Hopkins'  "help"  does  not 
hold  many  gaps  for  reflection.  It  is  a  breathless,  dizzying 
round  and  rush — one  long  "demnition  grind,"  from 
week's  end  to  week's  end.  And  perhaps  it  is  best  it 
should  be  so,  else  even  Jemima  Ann,  patient,  plodding, 
strong  of  arm,  stout  of  heart,  sweet  of  temper,  willing 
of  mind,  might  go  slowly  melancholy  mad. 

"It  would  be  awful  pleasant  to  be  like  they  are  in 
stories,"  muses  Jemima  Ann,  still  blinking  upward  at  the 
gray  squares  of  blurred  light,  "  and  have  azure  eyes,  and 
golden  tresses,  and  wear  white  Swiss  and  sweeping  silks 
all  the  year  round,  and  have  lovely  guardsmen  and 
dukes  and  things,  to  gaze  at  a  person  passionately,  and 
lift  a  person's  hand  to  their  lips."  Jemima  Ann  lifts 
one  of  her  own,  a  red  right  hand,  at  this  point,  and  sur- 
veys it.  It  is  not  particularly  clean  ;  it  has  no  nails  to 
speak  of  ;  it  is  nearly  as  large,  and  altogether  as  hard, 
as  that  of  any  of  the  foundry  "  hands  ;"  and  she  sighs  a 
third  sigh,  deepest  and  dolefullest  of  all.  There  are 
hands  and  hands  ;  the  impossibility  of  any  mortal  man, 
in  his  senses,  ever  wanting  to  lift  this  hand  to  his  lips, 
comes  well  home  to  her  in  this  hour.  The  favorite 
"  gulf  "  of  her  novels  lies  between  her  and  such  airy, 
fairy  beings  as  the  Duchess  Isoline.  And  yet  Jemima 
Ann  fairly  revels  in  the  British  aristocracy.  Nothing 
less  than  a  baronet  can  content  her.  No  heroine  under 
the  rank  of  "  my  lady  "  can  greatly  interest  her.  Pict- 
ures of  ordinary  every-day  life,  of  ordinary  every-day 


WHICH   PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN.       n 

people,  pall  upon  the  highly-seasoned  palate  of  Jemima 
Ann.  Her  own  life  is  so  utterly  unlovely,  so  grinding 
in  its  sordid  ugliness,  that  she  will  have  no  reflection  of 
it  in  her  favorite  literature.  Dickens  fails  to  interest 
her.  His  men  and  women  talk  and  act,  and  are  but  as 
shadowy  reflections  of  those  she  meets  every  day. 

"Nothing  Dickens  ever  wrote,"  says  Jemima  Ann, 
with  conviction,  "  is  to  be  named  in  the  same  day  with 
the  '  Doom  of  the  Duchess,"  or  '  The  Belle  of  Belgravia.'  " 

The  darkness  deepens,  the  rain  falls,  the  wind  of  the 
autumn  night  sighs  outside.  Through  the  gusty  gloam- 
ing a  shrieking  whistle  suddenly  pierces,  and  Jemima 
Ann  springs  to  her  feet,  as  if  shot.  The  six  o'clock 
whistle  !  The  moments  for  dreaming  are  at  an  end. 
Life,  at  its  ugliest,  grimiest,  most  practical,  is  here.  The 
men  will  be  home  for  supper  in  five  minutes. 

"  Jim  !  "  cries  a  breathless  voice.  It  is  a  woman's 
voice,  sharp,  thin,  eager.  There  is  a  swish  of  woman's 
petticoats  down  the  dark  stairs,  a  bounce  into  the  kitchen, 
then  an  angry  exclamation  :  "You  Jim  !  are  you  here? 
What  are  you  foolin'  at  tiow,  and  it  blind  man's  holiday 
all  over  the  house  !  " 

"  I'm  a  lightin'  up,  Aunt  Samanthy,"  responds  Jemima 
Ann,  placidly;  "you  know  you  don't  like  the  gas  a 
flarin'  a  minute  before  it's  wanted,  and  the  whistle's  only 
just  blowed." 

"  I'm  blowed  myself,"  says  Aunt  Samantha — not  mean- 
ing to  be  funny,  merely  stating  a  fact ;  "and  clean  out  o' 

breath.  I've  run  every  step  of  the  way  here  from 

Jemimy  Ann,  what  d'ye  think  ?  They  want  me  to  take 
in  a  woman  !" 

"  Do  they  ? "  says  Jemima  Ann.  The  gas  is  lit  by  this 
time,  and  flares  out  over  the  untidy  kitchen  and  the  two 
women.  "I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you.  Who  is  she?" 

"  Rogers  has  her,"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins,  vaguely. 
"  She's  with  the  rest  at  the  hotel  ;  but  there  ain't  no  room 
for  her  there.  Rogers  is  full  himself,  and  he  wants  me 


12       WHICH  PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN. 

to  take  her ;  says  she  ain't  no  bother ;  says  she  ain't  that 
sort ;  says  she's  a  lady.  That's  what  he  says ;  but  don't 
tell  me  !  Drat  sich  ladies  !  She's  one  of  that  circus  lot." 

"  Oh  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  rap- 
ture ;  "a  circus  actress  !  Lor!  you  don't  say  so  !" 

"And  she's  got  a  little  girl,"  goes  on  Mrs.  Hopkins, 
in  an  irritated  tone,  as  if  that  were  the  last  straw,  and 
rubbing  her  nose  in  a  vexed  way,  "she's  a  Miss  Mimi — 
Something,  and  she's  got  a  little  girl !  Think  o'  that ! 
Rogers  says  it's  all  right.  Rogers  says  all  them  sort  does 
that  way  ;  marries  and  raises  families,  you  know,  and 
stays  miss  right  aloiig.  This  one's  a  widow,  he  says. 
And  he  wants  me  to  take  her  in  ;  says  he  knows  I've  got 
a  spare  room,  and  would  like  to  oblige  a  charming  young 
lady  and  a  bear  little  child — not  to  speak  of  an  old  neigh- 
bor like  h)tn.  Yar !  I'll  see  'em  all  furder  first — the 
whole  bilin  !" 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Samanthy,  do  let  her  come  !  "  says  Jemima 
Ann.  "  I  should  love  to  know  a  circus  lady.  Next  to  a 
duchess,  an  actress  or  a  nun  is  the  most  romantic  people 
in  any  story." 

"No,  I  sha'n't,"  Mrs.  Hopkins  snappishly  responds ; 
"  not  if  I  know  myself  and  my  own  sex  when  I  see  'em. 
When  first  I  started  in  the  boardin'  line  I  took  in  females 
— ladies  they  called  themselves,  too,  and  table  boarded 
'era — dressmakers,  workin'  girls,  and  that — and  I  know 
all  about  it.  One  woman  was  more  trouble  in  a  day 
than  six  foundry  hands  in  a  week.  Always  a  hot  iron 
wanted  please,  and  a  little  bilin'  water  to  rinse  out  a 
handkerchief  or  a  pair  of  stockings  in  a  basin,  and  cups 
o'  tea  promiscuous,  and  finding  fault  continual  with  the 
.  strength  of  the  butter  and  the  weakness  of  the  coffee. 
So  I  soon  sent  that  lot  packing,  and  made  up  my  mind 
to  sink  or  swim  with  the  foundry  hands.  Give  a  man  a 
latch-key,  lots  of  soap  and  water,  put  his  boots  and  hair 
oil  where  he  can  lay  his  hand  on  'em,  let  him  have  beef- 
steak and  onions,  and  plenty  of  "em,  for  his  breakfast, 


WHICH  PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN.       13 

and  though  he  may  grumble  about  the  victuals,  he  don't 
go  mussin'  with  his  linen  at  all  sorts  of  improper  hours. 
I  won't  have  the  circus  woman,  and  that's  all  about  it. 

"Did  you  tell  Mr.  Rogers  so  ?"  asks  Jemima  Ann, 
rather  disappointed. 

"  Mr.  Rogers  is  a  yidyit ;  he  wouldn't  take  no  for  an 
answer.  Til  step  round  this  evenin','  said  the  grinning 
old  fool,  'and  bring  the  lady  with  me,  Mrs.  Hopkins. 
You  won't  be  able  do  say  no  to  her — no  one  ever  is.  I 
know  the  supper  and  six-and-twenty  foundry  hands  is 
lyin'  heavy  on  your  mind  at  the  present  moment,'  says 
he,  '  and  your  nat'rel  sweekness  of  disposition,'  he  says, 
'  is  a  trifle  cruddled  by  'em.'  Yas  !  I  never  see  sich  an 
old  rattle-tongue.  But  he'll  see !  Let  him  fetch  his — 
Lord's  sake,  Jemima  Ann  !  there's  them  men,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  drop  of  tea  put  to  dror  !  Run  like  mad,  and 
light  the  gas  !" 

Jemima  Ann  literally  obeys.  She  flies  up  stairs  like 
a  whirlwind,  sets  a  match  to  the  hall  gas,  and  has  it  blaz- 
ing as  the  front  door  is  flung  wide,  and  the  foundry 
hands,  black,  hungry,  noisy,  muddy,  troop  in,  and  up 
stairs,  or  out  back  to  the  general  "  wash'us." 

There  is  no  more  time  for  talking,  for  thinking, 
hardly  for  breathing — such  a  multiplicity  of  things  are 
to  be  done,  and  all,  it  seems,  to  be  done  at  once.  Hot 
water,  soap,  towels — the  tocsin  of  war  rings  loudly  up 
stairs  and  down,  and  in  their  various  chambers.  Gas  is 
lit,  the  long  table  set,  knives  rubbed,  bread  cut,  meat 
sliced,  chairs  placed — all  is  confusion,  Babel  condensed. 

Jemima  Ann  waits.  Coarse  jokes  rain  about  her,  a 
dozen  voices  call  on  her  at  once,  demanding  a  dozen  dif- 
erent  things,  and  she  is — somethinged — at  intervals,  for 
lacking  as  many  hands  as  Briareus.  But  mostly  it  all 
falls  harmless  and  half-unheard.  She  is  regretting 
vaguely  that  lost  circus  lady.  Since  she  may  never  be  a 
duchess,  nor  even,  in  all  human  probability,  a  "  my 
lady,"  it  strikes  Mrs.  Hopkins'  niece  the  next  best  thing- 


14       WHICH  PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN. 

would  be  to  turn  circus  rider,  or  become  a  gipsy  and  tell 
fortunes.  To  wear  a  scarlet  cloak,  to  wander  about  the 
"  merry  green  wood,"  to  tell  fortunes  at  fairs,  to  sleep 
under  a  cart  or  a  hedge,  in  "  the  hotel  of  the  beautiful 
stars" — this  would  be  bliss.  Not  that  scarlet  is  in  the 
least  becoming  to  her,  and  to  sleep  under  a  hedge — say, 
on  a  night  like  this — would  not  be  quite  unadulterated 
bliss — might  even  be  conducive  to  premature  rheumat- 
ism. But  to  go  jumping  along  one's  life  path  through 
paper  hoops,  on  flying  Arab  steeds,  in  gauze  and  span- 
gles— oh!  that  would  be  a  little  ahead  of  perpetual  tea- 
pouring,  bread-cutting,  bed-making  for  six-and-twenty 
loud-voiced,  rough-looking  foundry  men. 

She  has  been  to  a  circus  just  once,  she  remembers, 
and  saw  some  lovely  creatures,  in  very  short  petticoats, 
galloping  round  a  sawdust  ring  in  dizzying  circles,  on 
the  bare  backs  of  five  Arab  steeds  at  once,  leaping  over 
banners  and  through  fiery  hoops,  and  kissing  finger-tips, 
and  throwing  radiant  smiles  to  the  audience. 

Jemima  Ann  feels  she  could  never  reach  such  a  pitch 
of  perfection  as  that.  Her  legs  (if  these  members  may 
be  thus  lightly  spoken  of)  are  not  of  that  sylph-like  sort 
a  sculptor  would  pine  to  immortalize  in  marble.  She 
wears  a  wide  number  seven,  and  her  instep  has  not  the 
Andalusian  arch,  under  which  water  may  flow.  In  point 
of  fact,  Jemima  is  flat-footed.  In  no  way  does  the  sym- 
metry of  her  body  correspond  with  that  of  her  mind. 
Still,  it  would  have  been  something  to  have  had  this  lady 
rider  come.  If  not  the  rose  herself,  she  would  at  least 
for  a  little  have  lived  near  that  peerless  flower ;  but  the 
gods  have  spoken — or  Aunt  Samantha  has,  which  is  much 
the  same — and  it  may  never  be. 

Supper  is  over,  the  men  hurry  out,  on  pleasure  and 
pipes  bent,  not  to  return  until  ten  o'clock  brings  back 
the  first  straggler  with  virtuous  thoughts  of  bed. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  and  her  niece  sit  wearily  down  amid 
the  ruins  of  the  feast,  and  brew  themselves  a  fresh  jorum 


WHICH   PRESENTS    JEMIMA    ANN.       15 

of  lea.  A  plate  of  hot,  buttered  toast  is  made,  some 
ham  is  cooked,  "which,"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins,  "  a  bit  of 
br'iled  ham  is  a  tasty  thing  for  tea,  and,  next  to  a  pickled 
eyester,  a  relish  I'm  uncommon  partial  to,  I  do  assure 
you." 

And  both  draw  a  long  breath  of  great  relief  as  they 
take  their  first  sip  of  the  cup  that  cheers. 

"  I'm  that  dead  beat,  Jim,"  observes  the  lady  of  the 
house,  "  that  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  a  sittin'  on  my 
head  or  my  heels,  as  true  as  you're  born  !" 

As  Mrs.  Hopkins  in  a  general  way  sits  on  neither, 
this  observation  is  difficult  to  answer  lucidly,  so  Jemima 
Ann  takes  a  thoughtful  bite  out  of  her  toast,  with  her 
head  plaintively  on  one  side,  and  answers  nothing. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  is  a  tall,  thin,  worried-looking  woman; 
with  more  of  her  bony  construction  visible  than  is  con- 
sistent with  personal  beauty,  and  with  more  knowledge 
of  her  internal  mechanism  than  is  in  any  way  comfort- 
able, either  for  herself  or  Jemima  Ann. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  is  on  terms  of  ghastly  familiarity  with 
her  own  liver,  and  lungs,  and  spine,  and  stomach,  and 
takes  dismal  views  of  these  organs,  and  inflicts  the 
dreadful  diagnosis  on  her  long-suffering  niece. 

"Aunt  Hopkins,"  says  Jemima  Ann,  "  I'm  most  awful 
sorry  you  didn't  take  in  that  lady  from  Mr.  Rogers'.  I 
should  love  to  a  knowed  her." 

"  Ah  !  I  dare  say,  so's  you  could  spend  your  time  gad- 
din'  up  to  her  room,  and  losin'  your  morals,  and  ruinin* 
your  shoes.  No,  you  don't.  She'd  worrit  my  very  life 
out,  not  to  speak  of  my  legs  and  temper,  in  two  days. 
And  a  child,  too — a  play-actin'  child  !  What  would  we 
do  with  a  child  in  this  house,  I  want  to  know,  among 
twenty-six  foundry  hands,  and  not  time  in  it  to  say 
'Jack  Robinson  ' — no,  nor  room  either?" 

Jemima  Ann  opens  her  lips  to  admit  the  point  of  her 
knife,  laden  with  crumb  and  gravy,  and  to  remark  that 


16  PROFESSIONAL    LADIES. 

she  doesn't  want  to  say  "Jack  Robinson,"  when  the 
door-bell  sharply  and  loudly  rings. 

"  There  !"  cries  Mrs.  Hopkins,  exasperated.  "  I  knowed 
it !  It's  her  and  him  !  Doose  take  the  man,  he  sticks 
like  a  burr  !  Show  'em  to  the  front  room,  Jim,"  says  her 
aunt,  wrathfully,  adjusting  her  back  hair,  "  and  tell  'em 
I'll  be  there.  But  I  ain't  agoin'  to  stir  neither,"  adds 
Mrs.  Hopkins  to  herself,  resuming  her  toast,  "  until  I've 
staid  my  stomach." 

Jemima  Ann  springs  up  breathless  and  radiant,  and 
hastens  to  the  door. 

And  so,  like  one  of  her  cherished  heroines,  hastens, 
without  knowing  it,  to  her  "  fate."  For  with  the  open- 
ing of  the  street  door  on  this  eventful  evening  of  her 
most  uneventful  life,  there  opens  for  poor,  hard-worked 
Jemima  Ann  the  one  romance  of  her  existence,  never 
quite  to  close  again  till  that  life's  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 
IN  WHICH   WE  MEET  TWO  PROFESSIONAL  LADIES. 


GUST  of  October  wind,  a  dash  of  October 
rain,  a  black,  October  sky,  the  smiling  face  of 
a  stout  little  man,  waiting  on  the  threshold — 
these  greet  Jemima  Ann  as  she  opens  the 

door.     A  carriage  stands  just   outside,   its   twin  lamps 

beaming  redly  in  the  blackness. 

"Ah,  Miss  Jemima,  good  evening,"  says  this  smiling 

apparition,  "although  it  is  anything  but  a  good  evening. 

A  most  uncommon  bad  evening,  I  should  say,  instead. 

How  are  you,  and  how  is  Aunt  Hopkins,  now  that  the 

supper  and  the  six-and-twenty  are  off  her  mind  ?     And 


PROFESSIONAL    LADIES.  17 

is  she  in  ?  But  of  course  she's  in,"  says  Mr.  Rogers,  wait- 
ing for  no  answers.  "  Who  would  be  out  that  could  be 
in  such  a  night?  Just  tell  her  I'm  here,  Jemima  Ann — 
come  by  appointment,  you  know ;  and  there's  a  lady  in 
the  hack  at  the  door,  and  a  little  girl.  You  go  and  tell 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  Jim,  my  dear,  and  I'll  fetch  the  lady  along 
to  the  parlor.  One  pair  front,  isn't  it?  Thanks!  Don't 
mind  me  ;  I  know  the  way." 

Evidently  he  does,  and  stands  not  on  the  order  of  his 
going. 

"Run  along,  Jemimy,"  he  says,  pleasantly,  "and  call 
the  aunty.  I'll  fetch  the  lady  up  stairs.  Now,  then, 
mademoiselle,"  he  onlls,  going  to  the  door  of  the  car- 
riage ;  "and  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  step  in  out  of 
the  rain,  I'll  carry  Petite  here.  Up  stairs,  please.  Wait 
a  minute.  Now,  then,  this  way." 

All  this  time  Jemima  Ann  stands,  eyes  and  mouth 
ajar,  looking,  listening  with  breathless  interest. 

Mr.  Rogers,  gentlemanly  proprietor  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  Hotel,  further  down  the  street,  assists  a  lady  out 
of  the  chariot  at  the  door,  says  "Come  along,  little  'un," 
lifts  a  child  in  his  arms,  and  leads  the  way  jauntily  up  to 
the  "one  pair  front." 

"  This  is  the  place,  Mademoiselle  Mimi,"  he  says, 
somewhat  suddenly,  "Mrs.  Hopkins'  select  boarding- 
house  for  single  gentlemen." 

"  Faugh ! "  says  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  curling  dis- 
gustedly an  extremely  pretty  nose  ;  "  it  smells  of  corned 
beef  and  cabbage,  and  all  the  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  nasty  dinners  cooked  in  it  the  past  year." 

And  indeed  a  most  ancient  and  cabbage-like  odor 
does  pervade  the  halls  and  passages  of  the  Hotel  Hop- 
kins. It  is  one  of  those  unhappy  houses  in  which  smells 
(like  prayers)  ascend,  and  the  lodgers  in  the  attic  can 
always  tell  to  a  tittle  what  is  going  on  in  the  kitchen. 

'/  Mrs.  Hopkins  can  get  up  a  nice  little  dinner,  for  all 
that,"  says  Mr.  Rogers.     "She's  done  it  for  me  before 


1 8  PROFESSIONAL    LADIES. 

now,  when  the  cook  has  left  me  in  the  lurch.  She'll  do 
it  for  you,  Mam'selle  Mimi.  You  won't  be  served  with 
boiled  beef  and  cabbage  while  you're  here,  let  me  tell 
you.  And  she's  as  clean  as  silver.  This  is  the  parlor ; 
take  a  chair.  And  this  is  Jemima  Ann,  Mrs.  Hopkins' 
niece,  and  the  idol  of  six-and-twenty  stalwart  young  men. 
Jemimy,  my  love,  let  me  present  you — Mademoiselle 
Mimi  Trillon,  the  famous  bare-back  rider  and  trapeze 
performer,  of  whom  all  the  world  has  heard,  and  La 
Petite  Mademoiselle  Trillon,  the  younger." 

Mr.  Rogers  waves  his  hand  with  the  grace  of  a  court 
chamberlain  and  the  smile  of  an  angel,  and  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  Trillon  laughs  and  bows.  It  is  a  musical,  merry 
little  laugh,  and  the  lady,  Jemima  Ann  thinks,  in  a 
bewildered  way,  is  the  most  brilliant  and  beautiful  her 
eyes  have  ever  looked  on.  The  Duchess  Isoline  herself 
was  less  fair !  She  feels  quite  dazzled  and  dizzy  for  a 
moment,  anything  beautiful  or  bright  is  so  far  outside 
her  pathetically  ugly  life.  She  is  conscious  of  a  face, 
small,  rather  pale  just  now,  looking  out  of  a  coquettish 
little  bonnet ;  of  profuse  rippling  hair  of  flaxen  fairness 
waving  low  on  a  low  forehead  ;  of  a  dress  of  dark  ^ilk, 
that  emits  perfume  as  she  moves  ;  of  a  seal  jacket ;  of 
two  large  blue-bell  eyes,  laughing  out  of  the  loveliness  of 
that  "flower  face." 

"  Oh ! "  she  says,  under  her  breath,  and  stands  and 
stares. 

Mile.  Mimi  laughs  again.  Her  teeth  are  as  nearly 
like  "pearls"  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  little  white  teeth 
to  be.  She  can  afford  to  laugh,  and  knows  it. 

"  Now,  then,  Jemimy  !  "  cries  the  brisk  voice  of  Mr. 
Rogers.  "  I  know  you  are  lost  in  a  trance  of  admiration. 
We  all  are,  bless  you,  when  we  first  meet  Mam'selle 
Mimi.  Nevertheless,  my  dear  girl,  business  before 
pleasure,  and  business  has  brought  us  here  to-night. 
Call  your  aunt,  and  let  us  get  it  over." 

"Here  is  Aunt  Samanthy  "  responds  Jemima:   and 


PROFESSIONAL    LADIES.  19 

.at  that  moment  enters  unto  them  Mrs.  Hopkins,  her 
"  stomach  staid,"  and  considerably  humanized  by  the 
mellowing  influence  of  sundry  cups  of  tea,  and  quanti- 
ties of  hot  toast  and  broiled  ham. 

Mr.  Rogers  rises,  receives  her  with  effusion,  presents 
to  her  the  Mesdemoiselles  Trillon,  mother  and  daughter, 
and  Mam'selle  Mimi  holds  out  one  gray-gloved  hand, 
with  a  charming  smile,  and  says  some  charming  words 
of  first  greeting. 

Jemima  Ann  watches  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  She 
hopes — oh  !  she  hopes  Aunt  Samantha  will  not  steel  her 
heart,  and  bolt  her  front  door  against  this  radiant  vision 
of  golden  hair,  and  silk,  and  seal. 

But  Aunt  Samantha  is  not  impressionable.  Long 
years  of  foundry  hands,  of  struggles  with  her  liver  and 
other  organs,  of  much  taxes  and  many  butcher  bills,  have 
turned  to  bitterness  her  natural  milk  of  human  kindness, 
and  she  casts  a  cold  and  disapproving  glance  on  the 
blonde  Mimi,  and  bobs  a  stiff  little  courtesy,  and  sits 
down  severely  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair. 

"So  sorry  to  intrude,"  says  the  sweet  voice  of  Mile. 
Mimi,  in  coaxing  accents,  "dear  Mrs.  Hopkins,  at  this 
abnormal  hour.  It  is  really  quite  too  dreadful  of  me,  I 
admit.  But  what  was  I  to  do  ?  Mr.  Rogers'  hotel  is 
quite  full,  and  even  if  it  were  not,  there  are  reasons" — 
a  pause,  a  sigh,  the  blue-bell  eyes  cast  a  pathetic  glance, 
first  at  her  child,  then  appealingly  at  Mr.  Rogers,  then 
more  appealingly  at  frigid  Mrs.  Hopkins — "  there  is  a 
person  at  the  hotel  with  whom  I  cannot  possibly  asso- 
ciate. I  am  a  mother,  my  dear  Mrs.  Hopkins ;  that  dear 
child  is  my  only  treasure.  In  my  absence  there  would 
be  no  one  at  the  hotel  to  look  after  her.  I  can  not  leave 
her  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  ladies  of  our  company. 
So  I  am  here.  You  will  take  compassion  upon  us,  I  am 
sure  " — clasping  the  gray-gloved  hands — "and  afford  us 
hospitality  during  our  brief  stay  in  this  town.  Snow- 


so  PROFESSIONAL    LADIES. 

ball,  come  here.     Go  directly  to  this  nice  lady,  and  say, 
'  How  do  you  do  ?'  " 

"  Won't !"  says  Mile.  Trillon,  the  younger — she  is  a 
young  person  of  some  three  or  four  years  —  in  the 
promptest  way  ;  "  her's  not  a  nice  lady.  Her's  a  narsy, 
narsy  lady !" 

The  child  is  almost  prettier  than  the  mother,  if  pret- 
tier were  possible.  She  is  a  duplicate  in  little  rose  and 
lily  skin,  flaxen  curls,  blue-bell  eyes,  sweet  little  mouth, 
that  to  look  at  is  to  long  to  kiss. 

A  wild  impulse  is  on  Jemima  Ann  to  snatch  her  up 
and  smother  her  with  kisses,  but  something  in  the  blue- 
bell eyes  warned  her  such  liberties  would  not  be  safe. 

"For  shame,  you  bad  Snowball!"  says  Mile.  Mimi, 
shocked,  while  Mr.  Rogers  chuckles  in  appreciation  of 
the  joke,  and  Jemima  Ann  holds  out  a  timid  hand  of 
conciliation,  and  smiles  her  most  winning  smile.  The 
turquois  eyes  turn  slowly,  and  scan  her  with  the  slow, 
steadfast,  terrible  look  of  childhood,  from  head  to  foot. 
Evidently  the  result  is  unsatisfactory.  She,  too,  is  a 
"  narsy  lady."  The  disdainful  sprite  turns  away  with  a 
little  moue  of  disdain,  and  stands  slim  and  silent  at  Mr. 
Rogers'  knee.  For  Jemima  Ann,  she  had  fallen  in  love 
at  first  sight,  and  from  that  hour  until  the  last  of  her  life 
is  Mile.  Snowball's  abject  slave. 

"  Now,  don't  you  think  you  can  manage  it,  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins," says,  suavely,  Mr.  Rogers;  "there's  such  a  lot  of 
them  at  my  place,  and  it  may  be  only  for  a  week  ;  and, 
as  Mile.  Mimi  says,  it  is  for  the  child's  sake.  It  won't 
do  to  have  her  running  about  wild,  while  mamma  is 
away  at  the  circus,  you  know — eh,  little  Snowball  ?  And 
here's  our  Jemima  can  keep  an  eye  to  her  just  as  well  as 
not,  while  the  other's  on  the  dinner.  Not  a  mite  of 
trouble,  are  you,  Snowball?  Quite  a  grown-up  young 
lady  in  everything  but  feet  and  inches.  Come,  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  say  Yes." 

"And  I  will  not  stay  in  the  same  house  with  Madame 


PROFESSIONAL    LADIES.  21 

Olympe !  "  exclaims,  suddenly,  Mile.  Mitni,  her  blue 
eyes  emitting  one  quick,  sharp,  lurid  flash.  And  here,  at 
last,  as  it  dawns  on  Mrs.  Hopkins,  is  the  "cat  out  of  the 
bag ;  "  the  true  reason  of  this  late  visit  and  petition.  In 
the  circus  company  are  two  leading  ladies — Madame 
Olympe  and  Mile.  Mimi — and  war  to  the  knife  has 
naturally,  from  first  to  last,  been  their  motto.  They  are 
rivals  in  everything  ;  they  disagree  in  everything.  They 
hate  each  other  with  a  heartiness  and  vim  that  borders, 
at  times,  on  frenzy  !  All  that  there  is  of  the  most  blonde 
and  sprightly  is  Mile.  Mimi ;  a  brunette  of  brunettes, 
dashing,  dark,  and  dangerous,  is  Madame  Olympe.  Mimi 
professes  to  be  French,  and  was  "raised"  in  the  back 
slums  of  New  York.  Olympe  is  French — a  soi-disant 
grisette  of  Mabille.  Paris  is  written  on  her  face.  And 
two  tomcats  on  the  tiles,  at  dead  of  night,  never  fought 
for  mastery  with  tongue  and  claws  as  do  the  lovely  Mimi, 
the  superb  Olympe. 

"Ladies!  ladies!"  the  long  suffering  manager  is 
wont  to  remonstrate,  on  the  verge  of  bursting  into  tears, 
"how  can  you,  you  know  ?  Your  little  hands  were  never 
made  to  tear  each  other's  eyes  !  Upon  my  soul  I  wonder 
at  you — French  and  everything  as  you  are.  And  I've 
always  heard  the  French  beat  the  d — 1  for  politeness. 
But  it  ain't  polite  to  call  each  other  liars  and  hussies, 
and  heave  hairbrushes  at  each  other.  Now,  I'm  blest  if 
it  is !  " 

All  this  time  Mrs.  Hopkins  sits,  upright,  grim,  rigid, 
virtuous,  on  the  slippery  edge  of  her  horse-hair  chair ; 
"No,"  written  in  capital  letters  in  her  eye  of  stone,  on 
her  brow  of  adamant,  when  suddenly,  and  most  unex- 
pectedly, the  child  with  the  odd  name  comes  to  the 
re  .cue.  Snowball  fixes  her  azure  eyes  on  the  frozen 
visage  ;  some  fascination  is  for  her  there  surely,  for  out 
ripples  all  at  once  the  sweet  tinkle  of  a  child's  merry 
laugh  ;  she  toddles  over  to  her  side,  and  slips  her  rose- 
leaf  hand  into  the  hard  old  palm. 


22  PROFESSIONAL    LADIES. 

"Not  a  narsy  lady.  'Noball  likes  you.  'Nobal 
seepy.  Her  wants  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Bless  your  pretty  little  heart !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins, involuntarily.  Even  Achilles,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, had  a  vulnerable  spot  in  his  heel.  Whether  Aunt 
Samantha's  is  in  her  heels  or  in  her  heart,  Snowball  has 
found  it.  But  then  to  find  people's  hearts  and  keep  them 
is  a  trick  of  Snowball's  all  her  life-long. 

"  Seepy,  seepy,"  reiterates  Snowball  with  pretty  im- 
periousness.  "  Put  'Noball  to  bed.  Mamma,  make  her 
put  'Noball  to  bed." 

"  You  must  put  us  up,  you  see,"  says  mamma.  "  Come, 
my  dear  madam,  it  will  be  inhuman  to  refuse." 

It  will.  Mrs.  Hopkins  feels  she  cannot  say  "No;" 
and  Mrs.  Hopkins  also  feels  she  will  repent  in  wrath  and 
bitterness,  saying  "  Yes."  She  casts  one  scathing  glance 
at  serene  Mr.  Rogers,  and  says,  "  Well,  yes,  then,"  with 
the  very  worst  grace  in  the  world. 

"  Oh,  I'm  awful  glad !"  cries  out  Jemima  Ann  in  the 
fullness  of  her  heart.  "  Oh,  you  little  darling,  come  to 
me,  and  let  me  get  you  ready  for  bed  !" 

"  Go  to  the  nice,  nice  girl,  Snowball,"  says  Mile.  Mimi, 
"and  tell  her  you  will  have  some  bread  and  milk  and 
your  hair  brushed  before  you  go  to  sleep.  Ever  so  many 
thanks,  Mrs.  Hopkins,  though  that  yes  had  rather  an  un- 
cordial  tone.  Rogers  " — she  uses  no  prefix — "  the  trunks 
are  coming  by  express  ;  you  will  find  a  valise  and  satchel 
in  the  cab.  Send  them  up.  I  won't  trouble  you  for  sup- 
per to-night,  Mrs.  Hopkins  ;  we  had  a  snack  at  the  hotel. 
But  get  my  room  ready  as  soon  as  you  can.  There's  a 
good  soul.  We've  been  on  the  go  all  day,  and  I  am  dead 
tired." 

A  swift  and  subtle  change  has  come  over  Mile.  Mimi. 
Her  pleading  lady-like  manner  drops  from  her  as  a  gar- 
ment :  her  present  tone  has  an  easy  ring  of  command,  a 
touch  of  vulgarity,  that  Mrs.  Hopkins  is  quick  to  feel  and 
resent,  but  cannot  define. 


PROFESSIONAL    LADIES.  ;3 

"  Make  up  a  bed  for  Snowball  on  a  sofa  or  lounge 
near  mine,"  she  says  to  Jemima  Ann,  "  and  don't  let  her 
have  too  much  milk.  She  is  a  perfect  little  pig  for  coun- 
try milk,  and  I  don't  want  her  to  get  fat.  I  hate  flat  by 
children.  And  I'll  lie  on  this  couch  while  you're  getting 
my  room  ready,  I  really  and  truly  am  fit  to  drop.  Good- 
night, Rogers  ;  tell  Olympe,  with  my  compliments,  I 
hope  she  means  to  go  to  bed  sober  this  first  night." 

Her  musical  laugh  follows  Mr.  Rogers  down-stairs. 
Then  she  glides  out  of  her  seal-skin  like  a  beautiful  little 
serpent  slipping  its  skin,  throws  off  the  coquettish  bon- 
net, stretches  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  before  her  hostess 
or  niece  are  fairly  out  of  the  room,  is  fast  asleep. 

"  Well,  I  never  !"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins,  drawing  a  long 
breath.  "  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  Jemima  Ann,  I  do 
assure  you  I  never.'" 

"'Noball  seepy,  'Noball  hundry,  want  her  bed  and 
milk,  want  go  to  bed,"  pipes  plaintively  the  child. 

Jemima  gathers  her  up  in  her  arms,  and  ventures  to 
kiss  the  satin  smooth  cheek. 

"  You  dear  little  pet,"  she  says,  "  you  shall  have  your 
bread  and  milk,  and  go  to  bed  in  two  minutes.  Oh,  you 
pretty  little  love !  I  never  saw  anything  half  so  lovely 
as  you  in  my  life  !" 

"  Land's  sake,  Jemimy  Ann,  don't  spile  the  young 
one  !"  says,  irritably,  her  aunt.  "  Handsome  is  as  hand- 
some does,  is  a  true  motto  the  world  over,  and  if  her  or 
her  mar  does  handsome,  I'm  a  Dutchman.  'Good- 
night, Rogers,  and  tell  Alimp  to  go  to  bed  sober  this 
Jirst  night  ;'  pretty  sort  o'  talk  that  for  a  temperance 
boardin'-house.  There  !  get  that  sleepy  baby  somethin' 
and  put  her  to  bed.  I'll  go  and  fix  Miss  Flyaway's  room, 
before  the  men  come  in,  and  find  her  sleepin'  here  and 
make  fools  of  themselves." 

And  so,  still  wrathful  and  grumbling,  but  in  for  it 
now,  Mrs.  Hopkins  goes  to  put  her  best  bedroom  in  or- 
der. Jemima  carries  Snowball  down  to  the  dining- 


24  WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS. 

% 

room.  The  flaxen  head  lies  against  her  shoulder,  tha 
drowsy  lids  sway  over  the  sweet  blue  eyes,  the  very  lips 
are  apart  and  dewy.  Oh  !  how  lovely  she  is,  how  lovely, 
how  lovely,  thinks  Jemima  Ann,  in  a  sort  of  rapture. 
Oh  !  if  she  could  but  keep  this  beautiful  baby  with  her 
forever  and  ever  ! 

At  sight  of  the  bread  and  milk,  Snowball  wakes  up 
enough  to  partake  of  that  refreshment.  But  she  sleepily 
declines  conversation,  and  the  pretty  head  sways  as  the 
long  light  curls  are  being  braided,  and  her  clothes  taken 
off,  and  she  is  sound  again,  when  Jemima  bears  her  ten- 
derly up  to  the  little  extempore  bed  Aunt  Samantha  has 
prepared.  She  stands  and  gazes  at  her  in  a  rapture  as 
she  sleeps. 

"She  looks  like  a  duchess's  daughter!  She  looks 
like  an  angel,  Aunt  Samanthy  !"  she  says,  under  her 
breath. 

"  Yas  !"  cries  Aunt  Samantha,  in  bitter  scorn.  "  I 
never  see  an  angel — no  more  did  you.  And  if  you  did, 
I  don't  believe  they'd  a  rid  at  a  circus.  Now  go  down 
and  shake  up  t'other  angel  in  the  parlor,  and  tell  her  she 
can  tumble  into  bed  as  soon  as  she  likes.  And  mark  my 
words,  Jemima  Ann,"  concludes  Mrs.  Hopkins,  solemnly 
prophetic,  "that  woman  will  give  us  trouble,  such  as  we 
ain't  had  in  many  a  long  day,  afore  we're  rid  of  her  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 
IN  WHICH  WE  GO   TO  THE  CIRCUS. 

T  is  the  evening  of  another  day  ;  crisp,  clear, 
cool.     The  town-hall  has  tolled   seven,  and 
all  the  town,  in  its  Sunday  best,  is  trooping 
gayly  to  the  great  common  on  the  outskirts, 
where  the  huge  circus  tent  is  erected,  where  flags  fly, 


WE    GO     TO    THE    CIRCUS.  25 

and  drums  beat,  and  brass  instruments  blare,  and  great 
doings  will  be  done  to-night. 

A  great  rope  stretches  from  the  center  of  the  common 
to  the  top  of  the  tent,  quite  a  giddy  height,  and  the  cele- 
brated tight-rope  dancer,  Mile.  Mimi,  is  to  walk  up  this 
before  the  performance,  giving  a  gratis  taste  of  her 
qualities  to  an  admiring  world. 

Other  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  inward  and 
to-be-paid-for  graces  going  on  within,  are  there  as  well. 
Every  dead  wall,  every  fence  all  over  the  town,  is 
placarded  with  huge  posters,  announcing  in  lofty  letters 
of  gorgeous  colors,  the  wonderful  doings  to  be  beheld 
for  the  small  sum  of  fifty  cents,  children  half  price, 
clergymen  free ! 

Pictures  of  all  the  animals  whose  ancestors  came 
over  in  the  Ark  with  Noah  and  family,  together  with 
portraits  of  the  unparalleled  Daughter  of  the  Desert, 
Madame  Olympe,  on  her  fiery  steed  Whirlwind,  of  the 
daring  and  fearless  trapezist  and  tight-rope  dancer,  Mile. 
Mimi,  direct  from  Paris,  of  the  little  Fairy  Queen,  Snow- 
ball, who  is  to  be  borne  aloft  in  one  hand  by  the  Bound- 
ing Brothers  of  Bohemia,  in  the  thrilling  one-act  drama 
of  the  "Peruvian  Princess." 

The  portraits  of  the  rival  stars  attract  much  admira- 
tion and  comment — in  rather  a  coarse  and  highly-colored 
state  of  art,  it  must  be  admitted,  but  sweetly  pretty  and 
simpering  all  the  same,  displaying  a  great  redundancy 
of  salmon-colored  bust  and  arms,  and  pronounced  by 
those  who  have  seen  the  fair  originals,  speaking  like- 
nesses. 

And  now  all  the  town  is  to  see  them,  the  chariot 
races,  the  Bounding  Brothers,  the  Fairy  Queen,  the 
Daughter  of  the  Desert,  the  clown,  and  the  rest  of  the 
menagerie. 

It  is  a  crisp,  cool,  fresh,  yellow  twilight ;  the  world 
looks  clean  and  well  washed,  after  last  night's  rain.  The 
sky  is  turquois  blue,  there  is  a  comfortable  little  new 


26  WE    GO     TO    THE    CIRCUS. 

moon  smiling  down,  as  if  it,  too,  had  come  out  expressly 
to  go  to  the  circus. 

Everybody  is  in  fine  spirits,  there  is  much  laughter 
and  good-humored  chaffing,  there  are  troops  and  troops 
of  children — children  of  a  larger  growth,  too,  who  affect 
to  treat  the  whole  affair  with  off-hand,  good-natured 
contempt — only  come  to  look  after  the  young  ones,  you 
know — old  boys  and  girls,  who  in  their  secret  souls  are 
as  keen  for  the  sport  as  any  nine-year-old  of  them  all. 

An  immense  throng  is  gathered  on  the  common, 
watching  with  beating  hearts  and  bated  breath,  for  their 
first  taste  of  rapture,  the  free  sight  of  Mile.  Mimi  walk- 
ing up  the  rope.  And  amid  this  throng,  in  her  Sunday 
"  things  "  quite  "  of  a  tremble  "  with  joyous  expectancy 
stands  Jemima  Ann,  waiting  with  the  deepest  interest  of 
all  for  the  first  glimpse  in  her  public  capacity  of  the  fair 
performer  she  has  the  honor  of  knowing  in  private  life. 

The  band  stands  at  ease  giving  the  public  tantalizing 
little  tastes  of  its  quality,  working  up  the  suspense  of 
small  boys  to  an  agonizing  pitch,  laughing  and  talking 
to  another,  as  if  this  magical  sort  of  thing  were  quite 
every-day  life  to  them,  when  suddenly  everybody  is  gal- 
vanized, every  neck  is  strained,  an  indescribable  mur- 
mur and  rush  goes  through  the  crowd  :  "  Oh,  hush  ! 
Here  she  is  !  Oh,  ma  !  isn't  she  lovely  ?  Oh-h-h  !"  It  is 
a  long-drawn,  rapturous  breath. 

A  vision  has  appeared — a  vision  all  gold  and  glitter, 
all  gauze  and  spangles,  all  rosy  floating  skirts,  a  little 
flag  in  each  hand,  bare  white  arms,  streaming  yellow 
curls,  twinkling  pink  feet,  rosy,  smiling  face  !  The 
band  strikes  up  a  spirited  strain,  and  up,  and  up,  and 
up  floats  the  fairy  in  rose  and  spangles. 

Every  throat  stretches,  every  eye  follows,  every  breath 
seems  suspended,  every  mouth  is  agape.  Profound  still- 
ness reigns.  And  up,  and  up,  and  up  still  floats  the 
rose-pink  vision  ;  and  now  she  stands  on  the  dizzy  top, 
a  pink  star  against  the  blue  sky,  waving  her  flags,  and 


WE    GO     TO    THE    CIRCUS.  27 

kissing  hands  to  the  breathless  crowd  below  !  Now,  she 
descends  slowly,  slowly,  and  slowly  plays  the  band,  and 
the  tension  is  painful  to  all  these  good,  simple  souls. 

A  sort  of  involuntary  gasp  goes  through  them  as 
with  a  light  buoyant  bound  she  is  on  terra  firma,  bowing 
right  and  left,  and  vanishing  into  the  tent  like  the  fairy 
she  is. 

"  Oh-h-h  !  wasn't  it  lovely  !  Oh,  ma,  she  is  just  too 
sweet  for  anything  !  Oh,  pa  !  do  let  us  hurry  in  and  get 
a  good  seat.  Was  it  Olympe  ?  No,  it  wasn't,  it  was  the 
other  one,  Mamzel  Mimi.  Oh  !  I'm  being  scrooged  to 
death  !  Pa,  do  let  us  hurry  in — don't  you  see  everybody 
is  going  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  goes  with  the  rest.  It  is  the  rarest  of 
rare  things  for  her  to  be  off  duty,  but  Aunt  Samantha 
has  relented  for  once,  and  her  niece  is  here,  fairly  palpi- 
tating with  expectant  rapture. 

All  the  boarders,  washed  and  shining  with  good 
humor,  much  friction,  and  yellow  soap,  in  brave  array 
muster  strong,  and  kindly  little  Mr.  Doolittle  has  meekly 
presented  "Miss  Jim"  with  a  ticket.  So  she  is  swept 
onward  and  inward,  with  the  crowd  into  the  great  canvas 
arena,  and  presently  finds  herself  perched  on  an  ex- 
quisitely uncomfortable  shelf,  her  knees  on  a  level  with 
her  chin,  gazing  with  awe  at  the  vast  sawdust  ring  and 
the  red  curtain  beyond,  whence  it  is  whispered  the  per- 
formers will  presently  emerge. 

Then  she  glances  about  her — yes,  there  are  the  board- 
ers, there  is  Mr.  Rogers,  there  is  the  butcher  and  his 
family,  there  is  the  undertaker  and  his  wife,  there  is  the 
family  grocer  and  his  seven  sons  and  daughters,  there 
are  quite  numbers  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  she  knows. 
And  all  over  the  place  there  are  swarms  of  children, 
children  beyond  any  possibility  of  computation.  A  smell 
of  sawdust  and  orange-peel,  a  pervading  sense  of  hilarity 
and  peanuts  is  in  the  atmosphere,  the  band  plays  as  if  it 


28  WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS. 

would  burst  itself  with  enthusiasm,  and  the  evening  per- 
formance triumphantly  begins. 

Long  after  this  festive  night,  Jemima  Ann  tries  to 
recall,  dispassionately,  all  she  has  seen  in  this  her  first 
glimpse  of  wonder-land,  but  it  is  all  so  splendid,  so  rapid, 
so  bewildering,  to  a  mind  used  only  to  underground 
kitchens,  and  the  society  of  black  beetles,  and  blacker 
foundry  hands,  that  her  dazzled  brain  fails  to  grasp  it 
with  any  coherence.  There  are  horses — good  gracious ! 
such  horses  as  one  could  hardly  imagine  existed  out  of 
the  Arabian  Nights ;  horses  that  dance  polkas  and  jigs, 
that  put  the  kettle  on,  that  listen  to  the  clown,  and  under- 
stood every  word  he  said,  horses  that  laughed,  horses 
that  made  courtesies  to  the  audience,  horses  that  stood 
on  their  hind  legs,  that  knelt  down,  that  jumped  through 
hoops,  and  over  banners.  Jemima  Ann  would  not  have 
been  surprised  to  see  a  peg  turned  in  their  side,  and 
behold  them  spread  their  wings  and  soar  to  the  ceiling. 
Only  they  didn't.  And  then  the  clown,  with  his  startling, 
curious,  and  white  visage,  his  huge,  grinning  mouth,  and 
amazing  nose,  his  funny  dress,  and  funnier  retorts  to  the 
exasperated  ring-master — Jemima  Ann  nearly  died  of 
laughing  at  him.  Only  to  hear  his  jovial  "  Here  we  are 
again  !"  was  worth  the  whole  fifty  cents ;  so  said  the 
good  people  about  her,  laughing  till  they  cried,  and  so, 
with  all  her  heart,  said  Jemima  Ann. 

But  this  was  only  a  little  of  it.  When  Mile.  Mimi 
appeared,  more  gauzy,  more  spangly,  more  lovely  even 
than  outside,  careening  round  and  round,  on  four  fiery 
bare-backed  steeds,  in  that  breathless  manner  that  your 
head  swam,  and  your  respiration  came  in  gasps,  then  the 
enthusiasm  rose  to  fever  heat,  if  you  like  !  They  shouted, 
they  stamped,  they  applauded  the  very  knobs  off  their 
walking-sticks,  and  Jemima  Ann,  faint  with  bliss,  shuts 
her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  feels  she  is  in  the  mad  vor- 
tex of  high  life  at  last,  feels  that  she  is  living  a  chapter  out 
of  one  of  her  own  weekly  "dreadfuls."  How  beautiful 


WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS.  29 

Mimi  looks,  as  she  sweeps  by,  smiling,  painted,  radiant ! 
And  now — it  is  a  moment  never  to  be  forgotten — Mimi 
sees  her,  smiles  at  her — yes,  in  full  tilt  pauses  to  smile  at 
her  and  throw  her  a  kiss  from  her  finger  tips  !  All  heads 
turn,  all  eyes  fix  wonderingly,  enviously  on  the  crimson 
visage  of  Jemima  Ann. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  asks  in  a  tone  of  awe  those 
nearest,  and  Jemima  Ann  glows  and  responds  : 

"  Yes." 

It  is  a  proud  moment;  it  is  a  case  of  "greatness 
thrust."  People  scan  her  as  she  sits,  and  wonder  if  per- 
chance she  too  is  not  a  professional  lady  taking  her  fifty 
cents'  worth  here  for  a  change,  among  the  common  herd. 

Madame  Olympe  comes  as  the  Daughter  of  the  Des- 
ert, a  big,  handsome,  bold  brunette,  with  flashing  eyes 
and  raven  locks.  These  same  raven  locks,  together  with 
the  brief  allowance  of  cloth  of  gold,  and  bullion  fringe, 
and  a  pair  of  tinkling  anklets,  comprise  nearly  all  she 
has  about  her  in  the  way  of  costume.  She  is  distinctly 
indecent ;  the  virtuous  maids  and  matrons  blush  in  their 
secret  souls,  and  feel  that  this  is  worse,  very  much  worse, 
than  the  pink  gauze.  And  though  the  Daughter  of  the 
Desert  seems  to  fly  through  the  air,  and  does  some  won- 
derful things,  she  is  coldly  received,  and  the  audience 
break  into  a  laugh  when  a  forward  small  boy  suggests 
that  before  she  does  any  more  she'd  better  go  in  and  put 
something  on,  else  maybe  she'll  ketch  a  cold  in  her 
head  !  It  is  felt  as  a  relief  when  she  does  go,  and  the 
Bounding  Brothers  take  her  place.  One,  in  the  dress  of 
an  Indian  chief,  all  feathers,  beads,  and  scarlet  cloth, 
makes  a  raid  in  the  territory  of  another,  the  Prince  of 
Peru,  captures  the  child  of  lhat  potentate,  and  rides  a.\ 
break-neck  speed  with  her  held  aloft  in  one  hand  in  tri- 
umph. And  Jemima  Ann  gasps  painfully,  for  it  is  little 
Snowball,  all  in  white,  her  long  fair  curls  floating,  her 
rosebud  lips  smiling,  the  tiny  creature  stands  erect,  and  is 
whirled  round  and  round  by  th«  Indian  chief.  She 


30  WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS. 

kisses  her  baby  hand,  she  smiles  her  sweet  baby  smile, 
her  dauntless  blue  eyes  wander  over  the  house.  If  she 
should  fall !  Jemima  Ann  shuts  her  eyes,  sick  with  the 
thought,  and  does  not  look  againt  until  after  a  free  fight, 
and  a  great  deal  of  shooting  with  bows  and  arrows,  the 
princess  is  recaptured,  and  the  Bounding  Brothers  bound 
out  of  sight. 

Mile.  Mimi  on  the  trapeze  winds  up  the  performance. 
Her  agility,  her  strength,  her  daring,  here,  are  something 
to  marvel  at.  Her  springs  from  one  swinging  bar  to 
another,  look  perilous  in  the  extreme.  It  is  wonderful 
where,  in  that  slight,  graceful  frame,  these  delicate  hands 
and  wrists,  all  that  steel-like  strength  of  muscle  can  lie. 
This  also  Jemima  feels  to  be  more  painful  than  pleasant 
— it  is  a  relief  when  it  is  over,  and  though  it  had  been  an 
evening  of  much  bliss  and  great  excitement,  it  is  some- 
thing of  a  relief  to  rise  and  stretch  one's  cramped  liir.bs, 
and  breathe  the  cool  fresh  night  air,  and  see  the  sparkling 
frosty  stars.  Too  much  pleasure  palls,  Jemima  Ann's 
head  swims  with  so  much  merry-go-round — she  will  be 
glad  to  get  back  to  the  cool  attic  and  flock  mattress  and 
think  over  at  her  leisure  how  happy  she  has  been. 

"I  wonder  what  time  Mile.  Mimi  and  that  dear  little 
Snowball  will  get  home?"  she  muses;  "the  dear  little 
love  ought  to  be  fit  to  drop  with  tiredness.  No  wonder 
her  ma  wanted  some  supper,  I  wish  Aunt  Samanthy 
hadn't  been  so  cross." 

A  vivid  remembrance  of  the  scene  of  that  afternoon 
dashes  through  her  mind,  as  she  trudges  home  through 
the  quiet  streets.  Mile.  Mimi  just  back  from  rehearsal, 
she  and  Aunt  Samantha  busy  in  the  kitchen,  Snowball 
tripping  about,  asking  pretty  baby  questions — a  swish  of 
silk,  a  waft  of  strong  perfume,  and  Mimi,  bright  in  silk 
and  velvet,  lace  and  jewelry,  presents  herself. 

"  How  nice  and  hot  it  is  here,"  she  says,  coming  in, 
with  a  shiver  ;  "  the  rest  of  the  house  is  as  cold  as  a  barn. 
Why  don't  you  have  a  fire  in  your  parlor  this  October 


WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS.  31 

weather,  Mrs.  Hopkins?  And  how  good  you  smell!" 
sniffing  the  warm  air,  and  seating  herself  in  front  of  the 
glowing  stove.  "  What  are  you  cooking,  Jemima  Ann  ?" 

"Johnny-cake  and  gingerbread  for  the  men's  teas," 
responds,  modestly,  Jemima  Ann  ;  "a  pan  of  each.  The 
men  like  'em." 

"Do  they?"  s::ys  Mimi,  laughing.  "What  nice,  in- 
nocent sort  of  men  yours  must  be,  my  dear,  judging  by 
their  food  !  /should  not  like  gingerbread  and  the  other 
thing.  Apropos,  though  (no,  Snowball,  I  don't  want 
you ;  run  away),  I  should  like  a  hot  supper  when  I  come 
back  to-night.  I  am  always  tired,  and  hungry  as  a 
hunter.  I  always  have  a  hot  supper ;  cold  things  make 
me  dyspeptic.  Will  you  see  to  it,  Jemima  Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  glances  apprehensively  at  >*"int  Saman- 
tha.  Aunt  Samantha  draws  up  her  mouth  L»e  the  mouth 
of  a  purse,  and  stands  ominously  silent. 

"What  time  would  you  like  it?"  timidly  ventures 
Jemima  Ann. 

'  Oh,  about  eleven  ;  I  shall  not  be  later  than  that. 
Nothing  very  elaborate,  you  know — just  a  fowl,  a  chicken 
or  duck,  mashed  potatoes,  one  sweet  and  one  savory. 
Coffee,  of  course,  as  strong  as  you  like,  and  cream  if  it  is 
to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  Something  simple  like 
that !  And  I  shall  need  some  boiling  water  for  pun — 
well,  I  shall  need  it.  I  may  bring  a  friend  home  to  sup- 
per. I  hate  eating  alone,  so  lay  covers  for  two.  Don't 
seive  it  in  that  big,  dismal  place  you  call  the  dining- 
room  ;  let  us  have  it  cozily  in  the  parlor.  And  do  light 
a  fire  ;  your  black  grate  is  enough  to  send  a  chill  to  the 
marrow  of  one's  bones.  Snowball  will  not  sit  up,  of 
course.  You  will  put  her  to  bed  as  soon  as  she  comes 
home.  You  will  not  forget  anything,  will  you,  Jemima 
Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  is  too  paralyzed  to  answer  ;  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins is  literally  petrified  with  indignation.  Only  for  a 
moment,  though  ;  then  she  faces  the  audacious  Mimi, 


32  WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS. 

her  eyes  flashing,  her  face  peony  red,  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  war  and  defiance  in  every  snorting  word. 

"So!  this  is  all,  'm,  is  it?  Jest  somethin'  simple 
and  easy,  like  that !  And  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night ! 
Wouldn't  you  like  a  soup,  and  fish,  and  oysters,  ma'am, 
and  a  side-dish  and  Charley  Roose,  and  ice-cream,  and 
strawberries  to  top  the  lot  !  Why,  hang  your  impi- 
dence  !"  cries  Mrs.  Hopkins,  waxing  suddenly  from  the 
bitterly  sardonic  to  the  furiously  wrathful — "what  do 
you  think  we  are?  You  come  here  and  fairly  force 
yourself  on  a  respectable  house,  and  try  to  begin  your 
scandalous  goin's  on  before  you're  twenty-four  hours  in 
it  !  But  I'll  see  you  furder  first,  'm,  and  Rogers,  too,  I 
do  assure  you  !  No  friends  is  let  in  this  house,"  says 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  with  vindictive  emphasis,  "after  ten 
o'clock  at  night — no,  not  for  Queen  Victorious,  if  she 
begged  it  on  her  bended  knees  !" 

Mile.  Mimi,  toasting  her  little  high-heeled  French 
shoes  before  the  fire,  turns  coolly,  and  listens,  first  in 
surprise,  then  in  amusement,  to  this  tirade. 

"My  good  soul,"  she  says,  calmly,  "don't  lose  your 
temper.  You'll  have  a  fit  of  some  kind,  and  go  off  like 
a  shot,  if  you  go  on  like  that.  And  what  do  you  mean 
by  scandalous  proceedings  ?  You  really  ought  to  be 
careful  in  your  talk — people  get  taken  up  sometimes  for 
actionable  language.  It  is  not  scandalous  to  eat  a  late 
supper,  is  it  ?  I  am  a  very  proper  person,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  and  never  scandalize  anybody.  If  I  can't  have 
supper  here,  I  will  have  it  elsewhere — it  is  much  the 
same  to  me.  You  will  give  me  a  latch-key,  I  suppose — 
or  do  you  allow  such  a  demoralizing  thing  to  your  art- 
less black  lambkins?  Or  would  you  prefer  sitting  up 
for  me  ?  I  like  to  be  obliging,  and  I  will  be  back  by 
one." 

"  Miss  Mimi,"  begins  Mrs.  Hopkins,  "if  that's  your 
name," — Mimi  laughs — "  this  house  ain't  no  place  for 
the  likes  of  you."  Miss  Mimi  glances  disdainfully 


WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS.  33 

about,  and  shrugs  her  shoulders.  "  It's  a  homely  place, 
and  we're  homely  people."  Mimi  laughs  again,  and 
glances  amusedly  from  the  hot  and  angry  face  of  the 
aunt,  to  the  flushed  and  distressed  face  of  the  niece — a 
glance  that  says,  "  I  agree  with  you."  "  Your  ways  ain't 
our  ways" — ("No,  thank  Heaven  !"  says  Mimi,  sottovoce) 
— "  and  so  the  sooner  we  part,  the  better,  I  do  assure 
you.  You'll  jest  be  good  enough,  ma'am,  to  take  your- 
self, and  your  traps,  and  your  little  girl,  out  of  this  as 
soon  as  you  like — and  the  sooner  the  better,  I  do  assure 
you." 

Mimi  looks  at  her.  There  is  a  laugh  still  on  her  rose- 
red  mouth  ;  there  is  a  laughing  light  in  her  blue  eyes ; 
but  there  is  a  laughing  devil  in  them,  too. 

"My  good  creature,"  she  says,  slowly,  "you  labor 
under  a  mistake.  I  will  not  go,  and  you  shall  not  make 
me.  You  agreed  to  take  me  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 
I  have  paid  you  a  week's  board  in  advance,  and  no 
power  on  earth  will  move  me  out  of  this  hospitable  man- 
sion until  it  suits  me  to  go.  And  I  will  keep  what  hours 
I  please.  And  I  will  invite  what  friends  I  like.  I  shall 
return  at  once,  and  you  shall  shut  your  doors  on  me  at 
your  peril.  And  I  will  see  you — no!  don't  cry  out  before 
you  are  hurt — inconvenienced  is  the  word  I  will  use,"  she 
breaks  off,  laughing  aloud  in  genuine  amusement  at  the 
horror  in  the  face  of  her  hostess,  and  rises  gracefully. 
"Now,  Jemima  Ann,  the  sooner  you  bring  me  up  some 
tea  the  better,  I  do  assure  you"  mimicking  perfectly  Mrs. 
Hopkins'  nasal  tones  ;  "and  if  your  gingercake  is  very 
good,  you  may  bring  me  some  of  that,  too.  Come,  Snow- 
ball, and  let  me  curl  your  hair." 

It  is  the  first  time  in  all  her  seven  years'  experience 
that  Jemima  Ann  has  seen  her  intrepid  chieftaincss  taken 
down.  She  is  almost  afraid  to  look  at  her  ;  but  when 
she  does,  she  finds  her  gazing  after  her  enemy  with  a 
blank  and  stony  stare,  and  rigid  lips  and  eyeballs,  alarm- 
ingly suggestive  of  fits  !  No  fit  ensues,  however.  Theie 

2* 


34  WE    GO     TO     THE    CIRCUS. 

is  a  gasping  breath,  a  stifled,  "  Well,  this  does  cap  the 
globe !"  and  then  silence.  Aunt  Samantha  has  been 
routed  with  slaughter,  and  in  her  secret  soul  Jemima 
Ann  rejoices. 

She  goes  home  now,  through  the  crisp,  starlit  night, 
and  finds  her  stormy  kinswoman  waiting  up  with  a 
tongue  and  temper  soured  and  sharpened  by  long  hours 
of  solitude  and  stocking-darning.  She  is  first,  but  the 
boarders  follow  close,  noisy,  hungry,  and  enthusiastic  in 
then  loud  praises  of  the  charming  Mimi.  Olympe  is  a 
fine  woman,  no  doubt,  and  not  stingy  of  herself,  but 
Mimi  s  the  girl  for  their  money.  And  thus  they  have  a 
proud  feeling  of  proprietorship  in  Mimi.  She  is  one  of 
the  family,  so  to  speak.  They  feel  that  her  beauty  and 
success  reflect  glory  on  the  house  of  Hopkins.  Aunt 
Samantha  listens  to  it  all  with  grim  scorn  ;  declines 
snappishly  to  be  entertained  with  the  brilliant  doings  of 
the  night ;  declines  more  snappishly  to  go  to  bed,  and 
leave  her,  Jemima  Ann,  to  wait  up  for  Mile.  Mimi. 

"I'll  see  it  out,  if  I  sit  here  till  I  take  root,"  is  her 
grim  ultimatum.  "I'll  see  that  she  brings  no  trollopin' 
characters  into  this  house;  so,  hold  your  jaw,  Jemima 
Ann  Hopkins." 

The  door-bell  rings  as  she  speaks.  Is  it  Mimi,  so 
soon  ?  No,  it  is  a  man  from  the  circus  with  little  Snow- 
ball, sleepy  and  tired.  Jemima  Ann  takes  her  tenderly^ 
kisses  and  pets  her,  undresses  and  puts  her  to  bed.  It  is 
midnight,  and  still  Mimi  is  not  here.  Grimmer  and 
grimmer  grows  the  rigid  face  of  Aunt  Samantha,  colder 
and  colder  grows  the  night,  drearier  and  drearier  looks 
the  kitchen,  quieter  and  more  quiet  seem  the  lonesome 
midnight  streets.  One.  Half-past — with  her  arms  on 
the  table,  her  face  lying  on  them,  sleep  as  a  garment 
drops  on  Jemima,  when,  once  more,  sharp,  loud,  startling 
the  door-bell  rings. 

"It's  her!"  cries  Jemima  Ann,  and  springs  up,  "foi 
which,  'Oh!  be  joyful !"' 


MLLE.     MIMI.  35 

She  runs  up-stairs,  Aunt  Samantha  follows.  Outside 
there  are  voices,  one  the  voice  of  a  man,  and  loud 
laughter.  The  key  is  turned,  the  door  is  opened,  Mimi 
stands  before  them.  She  comes  in  laughing — aunt  and 
niece  fall  back.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Her  fair  face  is 
flushed,  her  blue  eyes  glassy,  there  is  a  smell,  strong 
subtle,  spirituous.  In  horror  the  truth  dawns  upon  them 
— she  is — (it  is  the  phrase  of  Jemima  Ann) — she  is  tight ! 

They  fall  back.  Even  Aunt  Samantha,  prepared  for 
the  worst,  is  not  prepared  for  this.  She  is  absolutely 
dumb  !  Mile.  Mimi  laughs  in  their  faces — a  tipsy  laugh. 

"  Car'  lamp  up-stairs,  'Mirny  Ann,"  she  says,  indis- 
tinctly, "  sor'  to  keep  you  up,  Miss  Hopkins.  Goo' 
night." 

In  dead  silence  Mrs.  Hopkins  falls  back,  in  dead 
silence  Jemima  Ann  obeys — words  fail  them  both.  She 
precedes  Mimi  to  her  room,  where  sweet  little  Snowball 
sleeps,  pure  and  peaceful,  sets  the  lamp  in  a  place  of 
safety,  sees  their  boarder  fling  off  hat  and  jacket,  and 
throw  herself,  dressed  as  she  is,  on  the  bed,  too  far 
gone  even  to  undress  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 
WHICH   RECORDS  THE   DARK  DOINGS  OF   MLLE.    MIMI. 


OLD  chicking,"  says  Jemima  Ann — "that's 
.  one,  buttered  short-cake — that's  two,  cran- 
berry sass — that's  three,  and  frizzled  beef — 
that's  four.  Yes,  four.  I've  got  'em  all. 
And  tea — that's  five.  There  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with 
her  appetite,  whatever  there  may  be  with  her  morals." 

The  antecedent  of  this  personal  pronoun  is,  of  course, 
Mile.  Mimi,  and  Jemima  Ann  is  busily  engaged  arrang- 


36  MLLE.     MIMI. 

ing  her  supper  on  a  tray.  Up  in  the  parlor,  in  a  pale- 
blue  negligee^  and  looking  more  or  less  like  an  angel, 
with  her  floating,  untidy,  fair  hair,  Mimi  is  yawning  over 
a  fashion-magazine,  and  listening  to  the  prattle  of  her 
small  daughter. 

"Enter,  Jemima  Ann  !"  she  cries,  gayly,  springing  up, 
"  laden  with  the  fruits  of  the  earth.  Snowball  and  I 
were  beginning  to  think  you  had  forgotten  us.  And 
where  is  the  precious  auntie,  my  Jemima,  and  is  she  still 
as  far  gone  as  ever,  in  blackest  sulks?" 

It  is  the  afternoon  succeeding  that  night,  and  no 
thundercloud  ever  gloomed  more  darkly  than  does  the 
countenance  of  Mrs.  Hopkins  whenever  it  turns  upon 
her  audacious  boarder. 

"  She  is  feeling  dreadful  bad,  Miss  Mimi,"  responds 
Mrs.  Hopkins'  niece,  gravely,  "  and  no  wonder.  You 
really  hadn't  ought  to  done  it." 

Mimi  laughs,  with  genuine,  unaffected  amusement, 
and  pinches  Jemima  Ann's  hard,  red  cheek,  in  passing. 

"  I  really  hadn't  ought  to  done  it !  Dew  tell !  Here, 
Snowball,  come  on — here's  a  lovely  bit  of  chicken  for 
you.  Well,  now,  Jemima  Ann,  I  admit  I  did  imbibe  a 
little  too  freely  last  night  ;  but  what  will  you  ?  I  was 
dead  beat,  I  was  warm  and  aching  with  fatigue,  and 
Lacy's  Clicquot  was  the  very  best,  and  iced  to  perfec- 
tion. Did  you  ever  drink  iced  champagne,  my  poor  Je- 
mima ?  Ah  !  the  wine  of  life  is  not  for  such  as  you.  If 
I  had  to  exchange  places  with  you,  and  grub  down  in 
that  abominable  kitchen  among  pots  and  pans,  and  wait 
on  dirty,  oily  foundrymen,  and  be  girded  at  by  that  vi- 
rago, your  aunt ;  I  would  simply  cut  my  .throat  in  a 
week,  and  of  two  evils  think  it  the  least." 

"  Aunt  ain't  a  bad  sort.  Please  don't  abuse  her,"  re- 
turned Jemima,  still  gravely,  "  her  bark  is  worse  than 
her  bite.  Who  is  Lacy,  Miss  Mimi  ?" 

The  first  shyness  of  new  acquaintance  is  over.  Mimi 
is  a  free-and-easy,  touch-and-go  sort  of  person,  easy  to 


MLLE.    MI  MI.  37 

grow  familiar  with,  and  Miss  Hopkins  has  her  full  share 
of  feminine  curiosity. 

"  Is  he  that  aristocratic-looking  gent,  with  the  raven 
black  mustache  and  diamond  studs,  a  stoppin'  at  the 
Washington  House?"  asks  Jemima,  in  considerable  awe, 
as  she  assists  Snowball  to  milk  and  short-cake. 

"Dyed,  Jemima  —  dyed,  my  dear,"  laughs  Mimi  ; 
"that  mustache  gets  mangy  sometimes  and  purple.  But 
the  studs  are  real,  and  he  is  rich  enough  to  wear  a  whole 
diamond  shirt  front,  if  he  chose.  Yes,  my  Jemima,  'tis  he  ! 
the  gent  at  the  Washington  ;  and  a  very  swell  young  man 
he  is  !  And  he  is  dead  in  love  with  me  ;  but  this  is  a  se- 
cret, mind,"  and  Mimi  laughs  again  at  the  simple,  puz- 
zled face  of  Miss  Hopkins.  "He  is  down  here  from 
New  York,  wasting  his  sweetness  on  Clangville  air,  for 
me  and  for  me  alone.  I  might  be  Mrs.  Lacy  to-morrow, 
my  Jemima,  if  I  chose." 

"  And  you  don't  choose  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.  I  have  had  enough  of  men  and  matri- 
mony. They're  a  mistake,  Jemima.  The  game  isn't 
worth  the  candle.  No  !"  her  face  sets  and  darkens  sud- 
denly, "at  the  very  best,  it's  not  worth  it." 

"  Are — are  you  a  widow  ?"  Jemima  Ann  ventures, 
timidly. 

There  is  no  reply  ;  Mimi  is  carving  her  chicken  with 
a  certain  vicious  energy,  and  all  the  laughing  light  has 
vanished  from  her  insouciant  face. 

"A  widow,"  she  says,  impatiently.  "Oh,  yes,  of 
course  I'm  a  widow — Rogers  told  you  that,  didn't  he  ? 
Snowball,  don't  choke  yourself  with  that  chicken  wing, 
you  little  gourmand.  Take  her  away  from  the  table, 
Jemima  Ann  ;  she's  had  enough." 

"  Wasn't  had  'nuff,"  cries  out  Snowball,  lustily,  cling- 
ing to  her  plate  with  both  hands  ;  "  s'ant  go.  'Noball 
wants  more  sort-cake,  'Mirny  Ann." 

"  Oh,  let  her  have  some  more,"  says  Jemima.  "  The 
dear  little  pet  is  hungry." 


38  MLLE.    MIML 

"  The  dear  little  pet  will  be  &s  fat  as  a  dear  little  pig, 
direccly,  under  your  injudicious  indulgence,  Miss  Hop- 
kins. No,  Snowball,  not  another  morsel,  and  no  more 
milk.  Leave  the  table  this  moment ;  you  ought  to  know 
by  new  that  what  mamma  says  she  means." 

She  rises  and  bears  Snowball  bodily  from  the  vic- 
tuals. And  straightway  Snowball  opens  her  mouth,  and 
there  rises  to  heaven  such  a  shriek,  as  it  is  to  be  hoped 
few  children  have  the  lungs  and  temper  to  emit. 

"There  !"  says  Mimi,  composedly,  "that  is  the  sort  of 
angelic  disposition  your  dear  little  pet  is  blessed  with, 
Jemima.  Please  open  the  window  if  she  doesn't  stop 
this  instant,  and  throw  her  out !" 

Jemima  Ann  declines  to  act  on  this  summary  hint. 
She  soothes  the  enraged  child,  instead,  and  surrepti- 
tiously conveys  to  her  a  contraband  wedge  of  short-cake. 

"  What  an  odd  name  you  have  given  her,"  she  re- 
marks, clearing  away  the  things  ;  "  she  never  was  christ- 
ened Snowball,  was  she?  That's  not  a  Christian  name." 

"  She  never  was  christened  anything,  my  good  Jemi- 
ma," responds  her  mother,  with  a  shrug.  "  What  is  the 
use  of  christening?  She  was  a  little  white,  roly-poly 
baby  ;  white  hair,  white  skin,  white  clothes — so  her  father 
used  to  toss  her  up  and  call  her  his  snowbird,  his  snow- 
flake,  his  snowball,  and  all  sorts  of  silly,  snowy  names. 
As  she  had  to  be  called  something,  Snowball  it  finally 
came  to  be,  and  Snowball  I  suppose  it  always  will  be 
now.  It  suits  the  little  white  monkey  as  well  as  any- 
thing else.  Pearl  or  Lily  would  be  more  sentimental, 
but  I  don't  profess  to  be  a  sentimental  person  myself. 
I  leave  that  for  you,  O  romance-reading  Jemima  Snow  ! " 

The  door  opens  as  she  speaks. 

"Samantha,"  says  a  pleasant  voice,  "are  you  here?" 

The  pleasant  voice  belongs  to  a  pleasant  face,  and 
both  are  the  property  of  a  pretty  matron  all  in  drab,  like 
a  Quaker,  who  opens  the  door,  and  stands  gazing  inquir- 
ingly around. 


MLLE.    MIMI.  39 

"Why,  Mrs.  Tinker!"  exclaims  Jemima  Ann,  "is  it 
you  ?  When  did  you  come  ?  Aunt  Samanthy's  jest  gone 
out  marketin'.  Do  come  in  and  wait.  I  know  she's  been 
wantin*  to  see  .you,  and  a  talkin'  of  going  to  the  cottage 
all  week." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Jemima  Ann?"  is  the  smiling  re- 
sponse of  the  drab  matron.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  had  bet- 
ter-  " 

She  stops  suddenly.  Her  eyes  have  fallen  on  Snow- 
ball, then  on  Mimi,  and  the  words  die  on  her  lips. 

A  startled  look  comes  into  her  eyes,  a  startled  pallor 
falls  on  her  face,  her  lips  part  breathlessly,  she  stands 
and  stares  like  one  who  has  received  a  shock. 

"  Oh  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  remembering  her  manners, 
"this  is  Mrs.  Tinker,  Miss  Mimi.  Mrs.  Tinker,  this  is 
Mamzel  Mimi,  a  lady  that  boards  here,  and  her  little 
girl." 

Mimi  smiles  easily,  shows  her  small  white  teeth,  and 
nods. 

Mrs.  Tinker  tries  to  bow,  but  some  sudden,  and 
strange,  and  great  dread  and  surprise  have  fallen  upon 
her — she  retreats  backward  in  a  sort  of  panic,  without  a 
word.  Mimi  lifts  her  eyebrows  and  laughs. 

"  Upon  my  word  !"  she  exclaims,  "  is  that  nice  moth- 
erly old  party  cracked,  Jemima  Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  hurries  out  without  reply.  The  elderly 
lady  stands  in  the  passage,  still  pale  as  whitewash,  her 
hands  pressed  over  her  heart. 

"Goodness  me,  Mrs.  Tinker!"  she  cries.  "Whatever 
is  it?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Tinker.  "  I've  had  a  turn, 
I've  had  a  turn,  my  dear.  Who  is  that  lady  in  the  parlor  ?" 

"  Mamzel  Mimi,  Mrs.  Tinker.  Surely  you  don't  know 
her?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  afeared  I  do — I'm  sore  afeared  I 
do.  What  is  she,  Jemima  Ann  ?  An  actress  ?" 


40  MLLE.    MIMI. 

"A  tight-rope  dancer  —  a  circus  performer,  l.or  ! 
Mrs.  Tinker,  you  ain't  a-going  to  faint  ?" 

For  Mrs.  Tinker,  breathing  in  gasps,  lays  sudden  and 
violent  hold  of  Jemima,  as  if  an  immediate  swoon  were 
indeed  her  intention.  And  Mrs.  Tinker  weighs  ten 
stone,  and  Jemima  Ann  feels  that  with  the  best  wishes  in 
the  world,  she  is  not  equal  to  bearing  her  to  the  nearest 
cold-water  tap.  Mrs.  Tinker  thinks  better  of  it,  how- 
ever, and  does  not  swoon 

"No,"  she  says,  weakly.  "No,  Jemima,  my  dear,  I 
shall  not  faint.  Oh,  me !  oh,  me  !  to  think  it  should 
come  at  last.  I've  always  feared  it,  my  dear,  always 
feared  it.  Sooner  or  later,  I  said,  she  will  find  us,  and 
she  will  come.  Oh,  me,  my  dear  mistress  !  How  will 
she  bear  this  ?" 

"Do  you  mean  Madam  Valentine?"  says  Jemima 
Ann,  looking  sympathetic,  and  deeply  puzzled.  "  Does 
she  know  Mamzel  Mi  mi  ?  Good  gracious  me,  Mrs. 
Tinker,  you  can  never  mean  that?" 

"Don't  ask  me  any  questions,  Jemima  Ann;  you 
will  hear  it  all  soon  enough.  Come  down-stairs,  I  feel 
fit  to  drop,  and  answer  me  a  few  questions.  Tell  me 
when  this — this  person  came,  and  all  about  her." 

They  descend  to  Mrs.  Hopkins'  own  particular  sit- 
ting-room, and  Mrs.  Tinker,  still  in  a  weak  and  collapsed 
state,  is  provided  with  a  fan  and  a  glass  of  water,  which 
stimulants  bring  her  slowly  round  to  calmness  and  co- 
herence. Jemima  Ann  unfolds  all  she  knows  of  Mile. 
Mimi,  which  is  not  very  much,  but  which  is  listened  to 
with  profound  and  painful  intensity  of  interest. 

"  It's  the  same,  it's  the  same,"  says  Mrs.  Tinker, 
mournfully.  "  I  know  it's  the  same,  I  never  heard  the 
name  afore,  but  I  knew  the  face  at  once.  It  is  many  and 
many  a  weary  day  ago,  but  she  hasn't  changed.  Oh, 
me  !  oh,  me  !  to  think  of  her  coming  at  this  late  day,  and 
all  the  harm  she's  done  !  It's  wicked,  my  dear,  hut  I 


MLLE.     MIMI.  41 

hoped  she  was  dead — I  did,  indeed.  And  the  child,  coo. 
Oh  !  what  will  Madam  Valentine  say?" 

"  Mrs.  Tinker,"  begins  Jemima,  literally  devoured  by 
curiosity — but  Mrs.  Tinker  rises,  a  distressed  look  on 
her  face,  and  motions  for  silence  with  her  hand. 

"  No,  my  dear/'  she  says,  in  the  same  mournful  tone, 
"  I  can't  tell  you.  I  can't  tell  any  one.  I  can't  stay  and 
see  Samantha.  I  don't  feel  fit  to  talk  or  anything.  I've 
had  a  blow,  Jemima  Ann,  a  blow.  I'll  go  home,  my 
dear,  and  read  a  chapter  in  my  Bible,  and  try  to  compose 
my  mind." 

Jemima  Ann  escorts  her  to  the  door,  more  mystified 
than  she  has  ever  been  before  in  her  life,  and  watches 
her  out  of  sight,  walking  slowly  and  heavily  as  if  bur- 
dened with  painful  thoughts.  Then  she  returns  up- 
stairs and  into  the  parlor,  where  Mimi  lies  indolently  on 
the  sofa,  her  little  feet  crossed  in  an  attitude  more  sug- 
gestive of  laziness  and  ease  than  lady-like  grace. 

"  Well,  Jemima,  has  that  flustered  old  person  de- 
parted? And  what  was  the  matter  with  her?  Is  she 
generally  knocked  over  in  that  uncomfortable  manner 
by  the  sight  of  a  stranger  ?  And  is  she  on  her  way  back 
to  the  highly  respectable  lunatic  asylum  whence  she  es- 
caped ?" 

"  Miss  Mimi,  are  you  sure  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  you 
never  saw  her  before  ?" 

"  Never,  to  the  best  of  my  belief.  Why  ?  Does  she 
seem  to  say  that  she  knows  me?" 

Jemima  Ann  is  silent.  There  is  a  mystery  here,  and 
she  feels  that  discretion  may  be  judicious. 

"  Who  is  the  venerable  party  anyhow  ?  She  is  a  nice 
kindly-looking  body,  too,  the  sort  of  motherly  soul  one 
would  like  for  a  nurse  or  that." 

"She  is  Mrs.  Tinker — Mrs.  Susan  Tinker." 

"Susan  Tinker.  Euphonious  cognomen!"  laughs 
Mimi.  "What  else  is  she,  oh,  reticent  Jemima  Ann  ?" 

"  Well,   she   is  housekeeper   for   Madam    Valentine. 


42  MLLE.     MJMI. 

She  has  been  her  housekeeper  for  more  than  twenty 
years." 

Jemima  is  just  about  lifting  the  tray  to  go,  but  Mile 
Mimi  springs  erect  so  suddenly,  utters  an  exclamation  sc 
sharply  that  she  drops  her  load. 

"  Land  above  !"  she  exclaims,  in  terror,  "  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 

"Who  did  you  say?"    Mimi   cries  out,  breathlessly;, 
*'  housekeeper  for  whom  ?" 

'*  Madam  Valentine — old  Madam  Valentine  of  the 
Cottage.  So  then  you  do  know  something  of  the  secret 
after  all  ? " 

Mile.  Mimi  is  standing  up.  A  flush  sweeps  over  the 
pearly  fairness  of  her  face — then  it  fades  and  leaves  her 
very  pale.  She  turns  abruptly  away,  walks  to  a  window, 
and  stands  with  her  back  to  curious  Jemima  Ann.  She 
stands  for  fully  five  minutes  staring  out ;  but  she  sees 
nothing  of  the  dull,  darkening  street,  the  leaden  October 
sky,  the  few  passers-by,  the  ugly  shops  over  the  way. 
The  blue  eyes  gleam  with  a  light  not  good  to  see. 

"  Don't  go,"  she  says  at  last,  turning  round  as  she 
sees  Jemima  Ann  gathering  up  the  tray,  "  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Who  is  Madam  Valentine  ?" 

"  Who  is  she  ?  Why,  she  is  Madam  Valentine,  though 
why  madam  any  more  than  other  folks  I  don't  know, 
except  that  she  is  very  rich — immensely  rich  and  aristo- 
cratic. Oh,  my  goodness !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  despair 
ing  of  conveying  any  idea  of  the  pinnacle  of  patrician 
loftiness  and  wealth,  which  Madam  Valentine  has  at- 
tained. 

"  Rich  and  aristocratic  !  What  in  the  world,  then," 
asks  Mimi,  with  a  gesture  of  infinite  contempt  out  of  the 
window,  "  does  she  do  here  ?" 

"  It  ain't  such  a  bad  place,  Clangville  ain't,"  retorts 
Jemima,  rather  hurt ;  "  but  she  don't  live  here.  She 
don't  live  nowhere,  Mrs^  Tinker  says,  for  good  ;  she  just 
goes  about.  She  has  houses  and  places  everywhere,  in 


MLLE.     MIMI.  43 

cities  and  in  the  country.  She  came  here  three  or  four 
years  ago,  and  took  a  fancy  to  a  place  out  of  town,  and 
thought  the  air  agreed  with  her.  So  she  bought  the  cot- 
tage, and  comes  for  a  month  or  two  every  fall  since. 
And  her  nephew  likes  it  for  the  shooting — pa'tridges, 
and  that.  She  is  going  away  next  week,  and  won't  come 
again  till  next  September." 

"  Her  nephew  ?"  Mimi  repeats  quickly.  "  Who  is  her 
nephew  ?" 

"  Mr.  Vane  Valentine,  a  young  English  gentleman, 
and  her  heir.  You  oughter  see  him  a  ridin'  through  the 
town,  mounted  on  a  big  black  horse,  as  tall  and  straight 
as  anything,  and  looking  as  if  everybody  he  met  was 
dirt  under  his  feet !"  cries  Jemima  Ann,  in  a  burst  of  en- 
thusiastic admiration. 

"Indeed  !  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  puts  on  airs,  does  he? 
So  he  is  the  heir  !  I  knew  there  was  a  British  cousin, 
and  an  heir  to  the  title.  Do  you  know  that  high-stepping 
young  gentleman  will  be  a  baronet  one  day,  Jemima 
Ann  ?" 

"Yes,"  says  Jemima  Ann;  "Mrs.  Tinker  told  me. 
But  how  do  you  come  to  know  ?  You  ain't  acquainted 
with  him,  are  you  ?" 

"  I  have  not  that  pleasure — at  present.  I  may  have, 
possibly,  before  long.  No — don't  ask  questions;  all 
you  have  to  do  is  to  answer  them.  There  are  only  the 
old  lady  and  this  patrician  nephew  ?" 

"  That's  all.     Mr.  Valentine  is  dead." 

"  Yes.     But  used  there  not  be  some  one  else — a  son  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  looks  at  her  with  ever-growing  curiosity. 
But  her  back  is  to  the  waning  light,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  be  seen. 

"It's  odd,"  she  says,  "that  you  should  know  about 
that ;  not  many  people  do.  Even  Mrs.  Tinker  hates  to 
talk  of  it.  But,  yes — there  was  a  son." 

"  What  became  of  him  ?" 

"  Well,  he  went  wild,  and  ran  away,  and  made  a  low 


44  MLLE.     MIMI. 

marriage,  and  was  cut  off,  and  drowned.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  more — I  don't,  indeed.  I  only  found  that  out  by 
chance.  And  now  I  must  go,"  says,  nervously,  Jemima 
Ann,  "for  its  nearly  six,  and  aunt  will  be  back,  and  the 
hands'  supper  is  to  get." 

Mimi  makes  no  effort  to  detain  her ;  but  when  she  is 
alone  she  stands  for  a  very  long  time  quite  still,  the  dark 
look  deepening  and  ever  deepening  in  her  face.  She 
hears  the  house  door  open,  and  the  shrill,  vinegar  voice 
of  Mrs.  Hopkins — hears  the  sweet,  shrill  singing  of  her 
baby  daughter,  chanting  with  much  spirit  and  "go,"  the 
ballad  of  the  "  Ten  Little  Injun  Boys  " — hears  the  ear- 
splitting  workmen's  whistle — and  still  stands  rapt  and 
motionless,  though  the  night  has  long  since  fallen,  and 
all  the  room  and  all  the  street  is  dark. 

But  Mile.  Mimi  belongs  to  the  public,  and  a  couple 
of  hours  later,  flashes  before  it  in  all  the  wonted  bravery 
of  tinsel  and  glitter,  and  even  eclipses  herself  in  the 
matter  of  hazardous  flying  leaps  on  the  trapeze,  and 
daring  doings  on  the  dizzy  slack-wire.  All  trace  of  that 
darkly-brooding  cloud  of  thought  has  vanished  from  her 
riante  face,  and  at  the  after-circus  supper  she  outsparkles 
her  sparkling  self,  and  returns  home  after  one,  flushed 
and  excited,  as  usual,  with  the  amber  vintages  of  France, 
as  furnished  by  the  Hotel  Washington,  and  paid  for  by 
Mr.  Lacy. 

For  Mrs.  Hopkins,  keeper  of  the  most  respectable 
temperance  boarding-house  in  the  good  New  England 
town  of  Clangville,  it  is  the  bitterest  trial  of  her  life. 
And  she  is  powerless  to  help  herself  ;  the  sting  lies  there. 
Mrs.  Hopkins  is  total  abstinence  or  she  is  nothing,  the 
most  daring  foundry  hand  never  returns  muddled  more 
than  once.  "There  is  the  door,"  says  Mrs.  Hopkins, 
with  flashing  eyes,  "and  here  is  you.  You  git !"  There 
is  something  in  this  Spartan  brevity  that  takes  down  the 
biggest  and  blackest  hand  of  them  all.  But  Mile.  Mimi 
absolutely  laughs  in  her  face.  "  My  good  soul,"  she  says. 


MLLE.     MIMI.  45 

"don't  put  yourself  in  a  passion.  I  intend  to  go  when 
my  week  is  up,  not  an  hour  sooner,  I  require  stimulants, 
prescribed  by  my  medical  attendant,  I  assure  you.  The 
life  I  lead  is  frightfully  exhausting.  I  am  not  going  to 
change  my  habits  and  injure  my  health  to  accommodate 
your  old-fashioned  prejudices,  my  very  dear  Madam 
Hopkins." 

There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  suffer  and  be  strong. 
Aunt  Samantha  knocks  under  to  the  inevitable,  and 
counts  every  hour  until  the  blessed  one  of  her  happy 
release. 

"  Land  o'  hope  !"  cries  out,  despairingly,  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins. "Jemima  Ann,  will  you  look  at  this  !  Of  all  the 
shameful  creeters," — a  hollow  groan  finishes  the  sentence 
— words  are  weak  to  express  her  sense  of  reprobation. 

Jemima  Ann  looks.  She  is  not  so  easily  scandalized 
as  Aunt  Samantha,  and  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  rather 
envies  Mimi  her  "right  good  time,"  but  even  she  is 
startled  at  what  she  beholds.  An  open,  double-seated 
carriage,  bright  with  varnish,  is  flashing  past  ;  and 
perched  high  on  the  driver's  seat,  beside  the  renowned 
Mr.  Lacy,  holding  the  reins,  and  "  hi-ing"  to  four  spirited 
horses,  is  Mile.  Mimi.  An  expert  whip  she  evidently  is, 
and  remarkably  jaunty  and  audacious  she  looks,  a  pretty 
hat  set  coquettishly  on  the  gilded  hair,  a  cigarette  between 
her  rosy  lips,  she  smokes  with  gusto  while  she  drives. 
Behind  sits  one  of  the  Bounding  Brothers  and  his  young 
woman,  also  with  cigarettes  alight,  and  loud  laughter 
ringing  forth,  and  as  they  fly  past,  the  whole  deeply 
shocked  town  of  Clangville  seems  to  rush  to  their  doors 
and  windows,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  demoralizing 
vision. 

"  I  knew  she  smoked,"  Jemima  Ann  remarks,  in  a 
subdued  voice  ;  "she  does  in  her  own  room  sometimes! 
of  an  afternoon.' 


46  MLLE.    MIMI. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  sinks  into  a  chair,  faint  with  despair. 
What  will  this  reckless  creature  do  next  ? 

"  She'll  give  the  house  a  bad  name,"  she  says,  weakly, 
"  and  there  don't  seem  nothin'  I  can  do  to  prevent  it. 
To  sit  up  there,  drivin'  two  team  of  rarin',  prancin' 
horses,  smokin'  cigars,  and  likely  's  not  half  tight.  I'll 
go  over  to  Rogers  this  very  minute  and  give  him  a  piece 
of  my  mind  anyhow." 

The  landau,  with  its  four  laughing,  smoking  occu- 
pants flashes  out  of  town,  leaving  the  coal  smoke,  the 
noise,  and  black  grime  of  foundries  and  manufactories 
far  behind,  and  whirls  along  a  pleasant  country  road, 
trees  on  every  hand,  brilliant  with  the  crimson  and 
orange  glories  of  bright  October. 

"  Does  anybody  happen  to  know  a  place  called  The 
Cottage?"  asks  Mimi,  "the  residence,  I  believe,  of  one 
Mrs.  or  Madam  Valentine?" 

"  I  do,"  replies  Mr.  Lacy.  "  I've  met  young  Valen- 
tine ;  dused  stiff  young  prig  ;  puts  on  airs  of  British  no- 
bility— 'aw,  don't  you  know,  my  deah  fellah  ' — that  sort 
of  thing.  Felt  like  kicking  him  on  the  only  occasion  we 
met.  Sour-looking,  black-looking  beggar !  But  he 
lives  right  out  here,  with  his  grandmother,  or  fairy  god- 
mother, or  something." 

"His  aunt,  my  friend  ;  be  definite.  There  is  a  pain- 
ful lack  of  lucidity  in  your  remarks,  Lacy,"  says  Mimi 
;<  Well,  I  want  to  stop  at  The  Cottage.  I  am  going  to 
make  a  call.  Don  t  ask  questions  ;  it  is  my  whim  ;  that 
is  enough  for  you.  Madam  Valentine  is  a  real  grande 
dame,  so  they  tell  me,  and  I've  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  one  of  the  breed.  So  I  am  going  to  call,  and 
see  for  myself.  I  may  never  have  another  chance." 

"  You  have  the  audacity  of  the  devil,"  says  Mr.  Lacy, 
with  artless  admiration.  "  By  George  !  I  should  like  to 
see  the  old  lady's  face  when  you  announce  yourself. 
Judging  from  what  I  hear,  and  from  the  look  of  that 
black-visaged  nephew,  she  is  more  like  a  venerable  em- 


MLLE.     MIMI.  47 

press  run  to  seed  than  an  every- day,  rich  old  woman. 
Shall  we  all  call,  or  will  you  go  it  alone?" 

Mimi  responds  that  she  will  go  it  alone.  Her  ciga- 
rette is  smoked  out.  Mr.  Lacy  lights  her  another,  as  she 
pulls  the  four  prancing  bays  up  at  the  gates  of  The 
Cottage. 

Her  pretty  face  is  slightly  paler  than  usual ;  her  lips 
are  set  in  a  tight  line  ;  a  somber  light,  that  bodes  no  good 
to  the  lady  she  proposes  to  visit,  is  in  her  blue  eyes. 
She  sits  a  moment,  and  scans  the  house  and  grounds." 

"  Not  much  of  a  place,"  remarks  Mr.  Lacy,  slight- 
ingly ;  "  only  a  shootin'-box  for  the  black  boy — I  mean 
the  nephew.  Lots  of  space,  though  ;  could  be  made  a 
tip-top  country-seat  if  they  liked.  Want  to  get  down  ?" 

Mimi  waves  his  hand  aside,  and  leaps  lightly  to  the 
ground. 

"  Wait  for  me  here,"  she  says,  and  out  of  her  voice 
all  the  snap  and  timbre  have  gone — "  or  no  ;  drive  on, 
and  come  back  in  half  an  hour.  I  will  be  ready  for  you 
then." 

"  Wish  we  had  an  old  shoe  to  throw  after  you  for 
luck,  Mimi,"  calls  out  the  Bounding  Brother.  "Don't 
let  the  Ogress  of  the  Castle  eat  you  alive  if  you  can  help 
it." 

"And  don't  fall  in  love  with  the  high-toned  nephew," 
says  the  young  person  by  his  side. 

"Or,  what  is  the  more  likely,  don't  let  the  high-toned 
nephew  fall  in  love  with  you,"  adds  Mr.  Lacy.  "  Sure  to 
do  it  once  he  sets  eyes  on  you.  Ta,  ta,  Mimi !  Speak 
up  prettily  to  the  old  lady.  Don't  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self." 

She  waves  her  cigarette,  opens  the  iron  gates,  and 
enters.  The  carriage  and  four-in-hand  whirl  on — vanish. 

With  the  yellow  afternoon  sun  sifting  down  on  her 
through  the  lofty  maples  and  larches,  Mimi,  with  head 
defiantly  erect,  and  blue  eyes  dangerously  alight,  walks 
up  to  the  front  door  of  The  Cottage. 


48  MADAM     VALENTINE. 

CHAPTER   V. 
IN  WHICH  WE  VISIT  MADAM  VALENTINE. 


T  is  an  unpretentious  building,  as  its  name  im- 
plies, a  low,  white  frame  structure,  with  a 
"  stoop,"  or  veranda,  running  the  whole  length 
of  its  front ;  set  in  wide,  wild  grounds,  and 
nothing  anywhere  to  betoken  that  the  lady,  who  is  mis- 
tress there,  is  a  lady  of  great  wealth,  and  still  greater 
dignity  arid  social  distinction.  There  are  great  beds  of 
gorgeous,  flaunting  dahlias,  Mimi  notices,  and  other  beds 
of  brilliant  geraniums :  no  other  flowers.  Two  great 
dogs  start  up  at  her  approach,  and  bark  loudly  ;  other- 
wise it  is  all  still,  in  its  afternoon  hush,  as  the  Castle  of 
the  Sleeping  Beauty.  But  human  life  is  there,  too,  and 
not  asleep.  A  lady,  slowly  pacing  up  and  down  the 
long  stoop  in  the  warm  sunshine,  pauses,  turns,  stands, 
looks,  and  waits  for  the  visitor  to  approach. 

It  is  Madam  Valentine  herself.  Mimi  knows  it  at  a 
glance,  though  she  has  never  seen  her  before.  But  she 
has  seen  her  picture,  and  heard  her  described,  ah  !  many 
times.  She  is  a  tall,  spare  old  lady,  with  silvery  hair, 
combed  high  over  a  roll,  a  la  Pompadour,  silvery,  severe 
face,  made  vivid  by  a  pair  of  piercing  dark  eyes.  She 
wears  a  dress  of  soundless,  lusterless  black  silk,  that 
sweeps  the  boards  behind  her.  She  looks  like  one  born 
to  rich,  soundless  silks,  and  priceless  laces,  and  diamond 
rings.  Many  of  these  sparkle  on  the  slender  white 
hands,  folded  on  the  gold  knob  of  her  ebony  cane,  as 
she  stands  and  waits.  A  lofty,  stately  figure,  her  trained 
robe  trailing,  her  jewels  gleaming ;  but  her  majesty  of 
bearing  is  altogether  lost  on  her  daring  and  dauntless 
visitor.  With  her  fair  head  well  up  and  back,  her  blue 
eyes  alight  smiling  defiance  in  "very  feature,  and  still 


MADAM     VALENTINE.  49 

smoking,  straight  up  and  on  marches  Mimi,  until  the  two 
women  stand  face  to  face. 

The  dogs,  at  a  sign  from  their  mistress,  have  ceased 
barking,  and  crouch,  growling,  near.  The  cottage  rests 
in  its  afternoon  hush,  the  long  shadows  of  the  western 
sun  fall  on  and  gild  the  two  faces — one  so  fair,  so  youth- 
ful,  so  bold,  so  reckless  ;  the  other  so  stern,  so  old,  so 
set,  so  proud.  Madam  Valentine  breaks  the  silence  first. 

"  To  whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of  speaking  ?"  she  asks, 
her  voice  as  hard  as  her  face,  deep  and  strong  almost  as 
a  man's. 

"  You  don't  know  me,"  Mimi  says,  airily  ;  "  well,  that 
is  your  fault.  /  never  was  proud.  Still,  you  might  re- 
cognize me,  I  think.  Look  hard,  Madam  Valentine ; 
look  again,  and  as  long  as  you  like.  I  am  used  to  it ;  it's 
in  my  line  of  business,  you  knoAV  ;  and  tell  me  did  you 
never  see  any  one  at  all  like  me  ?" 

She  removes  her  cigarette,  knocks  off  the  ash  daintily 
with  her  little  finger-tip,  and  holds  it  poised,  as  she 
stands  at  ease,  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  stares  straight 
into  Madam  Valentine's  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  you,"  that  lady  answers  in  accents  of 
chill  disgust.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  know  you.  If  you 
have  any  business,  state  it,  and  go." 

"Hospitable!"  Mimi  laughs,  "and  polite.  So,  you 
do  not  know  me,  and  have  no  desire  to  know  me?  Well, 
I  can  believe  that.  No,  you  do  not  know  me.  You  never 
met  me  before,  but  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  you 
have  heard  a  great  deal  of  me.  I  think  your  elderly 
housekeeper  knows  who  I  am  ;  she  looked  as  if  she  did 
yesterday  afternoon." 

Madam  Valentine  takes  a  step  back,  a  sudden  change 
passes  over  her  face — a  sudden  wild  fear  comes  into  her 
eyes.  And  it  has  chanced  to  few  people  ever  to  see 
Madam  Valentine  look  afraid. 

"  My  God  !"  she  says,  under  her  breath,  "  is  it — is 
it " 


50  MADAM     VALENTINE. 

"  George's  wife.  Yes,  my  dear  mother-in-law.  You 
behold  your  daughter  !  I  am  Mary  Valentine — known 
to  the  circus-going  world  as  Mimi  Trillon.  For  profes- 
sional reasons  a  French  name  has  hitherto  suited  me 
best,  but  my  reputation  is  made  now  as  a  dashing  tra- 
pezist,  and  tight-rope  dancer,  and  I  am  tired  of  sailing 
under  false  colors.  I  propose  from  this  day  forth  assum- 
ing my  own  name.  '  Mrs.  George  Valentine  '  will  look 
well  on  the  bills,  I  think,  and  sounds  solid  and  respect- 
able. Unless — un/ess," — she  pauses,  and  the  blue  eyes 
flash  out  upon  the  black  ones  with  a  look  of  spite  and 
hatred  not  good  to  see.  "  I  owe  you  something  these  last 
eight  years,  Madam  Valentine,  and  I  have  vowed  a  vow 
to  pay  my  debt.  But  I  am  willing,  after  all,  to  forget 
and  forgive — on  one  condition.  Do  you  know  I  have  a 
child  ?" 

There- is  no  reply.  Abhorrence,  hatred,  disgust,  look, 
at  her  out  of  Madam  Valentine's  dark,  glowing  eyes. 

"  A  little  girl  of  three  years  and  three  months — 
George's  daughter — your  only  grandchild,  madam  ;  the 
heiress,  if  right  is  done,  of  every  farthing  you  possess. 
I  love  my  child  ;  provide  for  her,  provide  for  me  ;  you 
count  your  wealth  by  millions  ;  I  drudge  like  a  galley 
slave.  Buy  me  off ;  I  don't  use  fine  phrases,  you  see, 
and  I  have  my  price.  Buy  me  off  from  the  circus.  It  is 
not  half  a  bad  life  for  me,  but  for  my  little  girl's  sake, 
and  for  the  honor  of  the  highly  respectable  family  I  have 
married  into,  I  will  quit  it.  But  at  a  fair  price — a  car- 
riage, servants,  diamonds,  a  fixed  and  sufficient  annuity 
— all  that.  And  you  may  take  your  granddaughter  and 
place  her  at  school ;  I  shall  not  object,  mothers  must 
sacrifice  their  own  feelings  for  the  good  of  their  children. 
Do  all  this,  and  I  promise  to  forget  the  past,  and  trouble 
you  no  more." 

She  pauses.  Madam  Valentine  still  stands,  but  more 
erect,  if  possible,  her  hands  resting  one  over  the  other  on 
the  top  of  her  cane,  her  face  as  set  as  steel. 


MADAM     VALENTINE.  51 

"If  you  have  finished,"  is  her  icy  answer,  "go  !' 

A  flush  of  rage  crimsons  Mimi's  face.  She  plants 
her  little  feet,  and  comes  a  step  closer  to  her  foe. 

"  I  have  not  finished  !"  she  cries,  fiercely  ;  "this  is  one 
side  of  the  medal — let  me  show  you  the  reverse.  Refuse 
—treat  me  with  scorn  and  insult,  as  you  have  hitherto 
done,  and  by  this  light  I  swear  I'll  make  you  repent  it  ! 
1 11  placard  your  name — the  name  you  are  all  so  proud 
of — on  every  dead  wall,  and  every  fence,  in  every  news- 
paper, the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land  !  I'll  proclaim 
from  the  house-tops  whose  daughter-in-law  I  have  the 
honor  to  be,  whose  wife  I  have  been,  whose  widow  I  am  ! 
For  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  your  son  is  dead?" 

The  haughty,  inflexible  old  face  changes  for  a  mo- 
ment, there  is  a  brief  quiver  of  the  thin,  set  lips — then 
perfect  repose  again. 

"Yes,  he  is  dead,"  goes  on  Mimi,  "killed  by  your 
hardness  and  cruelty.  He  was  your  only  son,  but  you 
killed  him  with  your  pride.  It  must  be  a  consoling 
thought  that,  in  your  childless  old  age  !  But  you  have 
your  nephew — I  forgot — he  is  to  have  poor  George's 
birthright.  He  perished  in  misery  and  want,  Madam 
Valentine,  and  his  last  thought  was  for  you.  It  will 
comfort  you  on  your  own  death  bed,  one  of  these  days, 
to  remember  it.  Now  choose — will  you  provide  for  my 
future  and  for  my  child's,  or  shall  I  proclaim  to  the 
world  who  I  am,  and  what  manner  of  woman  are  you  ?" 

"  Will  you  go  ?"  repeats  Madam  Valentine,  in  the 
same  voice  of  icy  contempt,  "  or  must  I  set  my  dogs  on 
you  to  drive  you  out  ?" 

"If  you  dare  !"  cries  Mimi,  her  face  ablaze.  "  I  defy 
you  and  your  dogs  !  I  shall  remain  in  Clangville  until 
Saturday — this  is  Thursday — I  give  you  until  Saturday 
to  decide.  '  If  I  do  not  hear  from  you  before  I  leave  this 
place,  look  to  the  consequences !  The  whole  country 
shall  know  my  story  ;  the  world  shall  judge  between  us. 
My  story  shall  be  told  in  every  way  in  which  it  is  pos- 


52  MADAM     VALENTINE. 

sible  to  tell  it,  the  story  of  the  wronged  wife,  and  the 
mother  who  murdered  her  only  son  !  You  are  warned  ! 
I  wish  you  good-day,  and  a  very  good%  appetite  for  your 
dinner,  Madam*  Valentine  !" 

She  takes  her  skirts  after  the  stately  old  fashion,  and 
sweeps  a  profound  and  mocking  courtesy.  Then  sing- 
ing as  she  goes  a  snatch  of  a  drinking  song,  and  walking 
with  an  exaggerated  swagger,  she  marches  back  to  re- 
join her  friends,  by  this  time  waiting  at  the  gate. 

Madam  Valentine  stands  and  looks  after  her,  a  lofty, 
lonely,  dark-draped  figure,  in  the  yellow  waning  light. 
So  still  she  stands,  her  hands  folded  on  the  top  of  her 
gold  and  black  cane,  that  it  is  nearly  half  an  hour  before 
she  wakes  from  her  trance. 

The  lengthy  afternoon  shadows  are  at  their  longest, 
the  October  wind  sighs  fitfully  through  the  trees,  the 
air  grows  sharp  and  frosty,  but  she  feels  no  chill,  sees  no 
change.  The  dead  seems  to  have  arisen,  her  drowned 
son  has  come  from  his  grave  and  spoken  to  her  through 
this  woman's  lips — this  low-born,  low-bred,  violent  crea- 
ture, this  jumper  of  horizontal  bars,  this  rough  rider  of 
horses  !  This  is  the  wife  he  has  wedded,  the  daughter  he 
has  given  her,  the  mother  of  the  last  daughter  of  the 
house  of  Valentine  !  If  vindictive  little  Mimi,  laughing, 
jesting,  smoking,  driving  four-in-hand,  loudly  and  reck- 
lessly all  the  way  back,  could  but  read  the  heart  she  has 
left  behind,  even  her  vengeance  would  ask  no  more ! 


MR,     VANE     VALENTINE.  53 

CHAPTER   VI. 

WHICH  INTRODUCES  MR.   VANE  VALENTINE. 


HE  rouses  herself  at  last,  and  goes  in,  shiver- 
ing in  the  first  consciousness  she  has  yet  felt 
of  the  rising  wind.  It  is  dusk  already  Ln  the 
hall,  but  the  sitting-room  she  enters  is  lit  by 
a  bright  wood  fire.  The  last  pale  primrose  glitter  of  the 
western  sky  shows  through  the  muslin  curtains  of  the 
one  bay-window — a  window  with  no  womanly  litter  of 
bird-cages  and  flower-pots,  or  fancy-work.  And  yet  it  is 
a  cozy  room,  and  sufficiently  home-like,  with  an  abun- 
dance of  books  and  magazines  strewn  everywhere,  many 
pictures  on  the  papered  walls,  and  half  a  dozen  chairs  of 
the  order  pouf. 

She  pulls  the  bell-rope  in  crossing  to  her  own  partic- 
ular seat,  and  sinks  wearily  into  its  downy  depths,  in 
front  of  the  fire.  She  still  rests  upon  her  cane,  and 
droops  a  little  forward,  but  the  stern  old  face  keeps  its 
hard  frigidity  of  look,  and  shows  little  more  trace  of 
suffering  than  a  face  cut  in  gray  stone. 

"  Jane,"  she  says,  quietly,  to  the  woman  who  appears, 
"  send  Mrs.  Tinker  to  me." 

Jane  says  "Yes'm,"  and  goes.  The  dark,  resolute 
eyes  turn  to  the  fire  and  gaze  into  its  ruddy  depths,  until 
the  door  reopens,  and  the  housekeeper,  fluttered  and  ner- 
vous, enters.  She  has  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  visitor, 
and  stands  almost  like  a  culprit  before  her  mistress. 

Madam  Valentine  eyes  her  for  a  moment  as  she  stands 
smoothing  down  her  black  silk  apron  with  two  restless 
old  hands. 

"  Susan,"  she  says,  in  the  same  quiet  tone,  "  I  have 
had  a  caller.  You  may  have  seen  her — you  may  even 
have  heard  her,  she  spoke  loudly  enough.  She  men 


54  MR.     VANE     VALENTINE. 

tioned  you  incidentally  in  something  she  said — spoke  of 
your  recognizing  her,  or  something  of  the  kind.  Do  you 
know  who  I  mean  ?" 

"  Mistress,  I  am  afeard  I  do." 

"  You  have  seen  this — this  person,  then — where  ?" 

"She  lodges  with  my  cousin  in  the  town,  ma'am — 
leastways  she  was  poor,  dear  Tinker's  cousin,  afore  he 
departed  ;  she  keeps  a  boardin'-house,  which  her  name  it 
is  Samantha  Hopkins " 

Madam  Valentine  waves  her  hand  impatiently — a 
hand  that  flashes  in  the  fire-light.  Samantha  Hopkins 
is  something  less  than  nothing  to  her. 

"  She  lodges  in  Clangville,  and  you  have  «een  ner. 
Have  you  spoken  to  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  no — not  for  the  world  !  And — and 
I  didn't  know  she  knew  me" 

11  How  did  you  know  her  ?" 

"  Mistress,"  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  used  to  see—  T  often 
saw — her  picture  with — with  Master " 

Again  the  white,  ringed  hand  flashes  in  the  fire-light, 
quickly — angrily,  this  time. 

"  Stop  !  I  want  to  hear  no  names.  Do  you  know  who 
she  claims  to  be  ?" 

"  Mistress,  yes,"  still  very  low. 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?"  the  voice  this  time  sharp  with 
angry  pain. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  I  am  afeard — I  am  afeard — I 
do  !" 

A  pause.  The  fire  leaps  and  sparkles,  and  gilds  the 
pictures  on  the  walls,  and  brings  out  in  its  vivid  glow 
the  faces  of  the  two  women,  mistress  and  servant.  The 
last  gray  light  of  the  waning  day  lingers  on  these  two 
gray  old  faces — one  so  agitated,  so  tear-wet,  so  stricken 
with  sorrow  and  shame — one  in  its  chill,  pale  pride, 
showing  nothing  of  the  agony  within. 

"You  recognized  her  at  first  sight,"  says  Madarn  Val- 
entine, mastering  her  voice  with  an  effort — //  is  hardly  as 


MR.      VANE     VALENTINE.  55 

well  trained  as  her  face — "  without  a  word — from  the 
photographs  you  used  to  see?" 

"  1  did,  ma'am." 

"  Then  I  suppose  there  can  be  no  mistake.  I  would 
not  have  believed  that — that  person's  word.  You  know 
there  is  a  child  ?" 

"  I  saw  her,  madam.  Oh,  my  dear  mistress,  I  saw  her  ! 
— Master  George's  own  little  child  !  Oh  !  my  heart !  my 
heart !" 

She  breaks  down  suddenly,  and  covering  her  old  face 
with  her  old  hands,  sobs  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
Madam  Valentine's  face  changes,  works,  and  turns  quite 
ghastly  as  she  listens  and  looks. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  Mrs.  Tinker  sobs,  "my  own  dear 
mistress.  I  have  no  right  to  cry  and  distress  you  in  your 
sore  trouble,  but  I  loved  him  so  !  And  to  see  her — that 
pretty,  pretty  little  one,  and  to  know  that  he  was  dead, 
my  bright,  bonny  boy,  and  that  she  was  his  child — oh ! 
my  mistress,  it  goes  near  to  break  my  heart.  Don't  'ee 
be  angry  wi'  me,  I  am  only  an  old  woman,  and  I  held 
him  in  my  arms  many  and  many  a  time,  and  my  own 
flesh  and  blood  could  never  be  dearer  than  my  dearest 
Master  George !" 

"  You  may  go,  Susan." 

She  speaks  with  measured  quiet,  but  not  coldly  nor 
impatiently. 

"  And  you  are  not  angry  wi'  me  ?  Oh  !  mistress, 
don't  'ee  be  angry — don't  'ee,  now  !  Indeed,  and  in  very 
deed,  I " 

"  I  am  not  angry.  You  are  a  good  soul,  Tinker.  I 
have  a  great  respect  for  you.  When  Mr.  Vane  comes  in 
send  him  to  me  at  once." 

"  He  is  here  now,  ma'am.     I  hear  his  steps  in  the  'all." 

A  slow,  rather  heavy  step,  is  indeed  audible,  and  a 
man's  voice  calls  through  the  utter  dusk  for  somebody 
to  show  a  light. 


56  MR.     VANE     VALENTINE. 

"Yes,"  says  madam,  listening,  "tell  him  to  come  in 
here,  before  he  goes  to  his  room  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"  Shall  I  send  in  lamps,  ma'am  ?" 

"  No — not  until  I  ring.     The  twilight  is  enough." 

Mrs.  Tinker,  wiping  her  eyes,  departs,  and  her  mis- 
tiess  turns  her  brooding  gaze  once  again  upon  the  fire. 
A  very  somber  gaze. 

All  her  life  of  fifty  years  and  more,  this  woman  has 
been  trained  to  self-repression,  and  in  this  supreme  hour 
she  is  true  to  her  training  and  traditions. 

He  would  be  a  keen  observer,  who,  at  this  moment, 
could  read  what  she  is  enduring  in  her  still  face.  And 
yet  she  has  been  a  mother,  a  passionately  loving  mother, 
and  all  the  martyrdom  of  maternity  is  rending  her  heart 
in  this  hour.  But  of  all  the  men  in  the  world,  the  man 
who  enters  now,  is  the  very  last  to  whom  she  will 
show  it. 

He  is  Vane  Valentine,  a  young  Englishman,  a  nephew 
of  her  late  husband,  and  the  last  male  of  the  Valentine 
race,  heir-at-law  to  a  baronetcy,  and  heir  presumptive  of 
Catherine  Valentine's  millions,  vice  George  Hamilton 
Vaientine,  cashiered  and  deceased. 

He  is  a  slim,  dark  young  man,  not  much  over  twenty, 
with  a  sallow,  thin  face,  a  thin  aquiline  nose,  a  thin, 
rather  womanish  mouth,  a  thin,  black  mustache,  and  thin 
black  hair,  parted  down  the  middle. 

Thinness  and  blackness,  indeed,  at  the  present  stage 
of  his  existence,  are  the  most  salient  points  about  him, 
if  you  except  a  certain  expression  of  obstinacy  about 
the  whole  face,  and  an  air  of  hauteur,  amounting  almost 
to  insolence  in  everything  he  says  and  does. 

The  pride  of  these  Valentines,  for  that  matter,  is 
quite  out  of  proportion  to  their  purse,  if  not  to  their 
pedigree,  madam  being  the  only  member  of  the  family 
out  of  the  absolute  reach  of  poverty — but  pride  and 
poverty  run  in  harness  together  often  enough. 

He  comes  in  quickly,  surprised  at  Mrs.  Tinker's  mes 


MR.     VANE     VALENTINE.  57 

sage,  for  madam,  in  a  general  way,  is  not  over  fond  of 
him,  does  not  greatly  affect  his  society,  and  never  sends 
for  him. 

"  You  are  not  ill,  aunt  ?"  he  inquires. 

He  speaks  with  something  of  a  drawl,  but  not  an  af- 
fected one.  He  never  has  much  to  say  for  himself,  so 
perhaps  is  wise  to  make  the  most  of  the  little  he  has. 

"111?  No,"  she  answers,  contemptuously.  "I  am 
never  ill.  You  should  know  that.  I  have  sent  for  you 
to  discuss  a  very  serious  matter.  I  consider  you  have  a 
right  to  know,  and  perhaps — to  decide.  You  may  be  my 
heir  ;  the  honor  of  the  Valentine  name  is  in  your  keep- 
ing, and  she  threatens — Vane  !"  abruptly,  "you  know  the 
story  of — my  son  ?" 

"  Unfortunately,  yes.  A  very  sad  and  shocking  story," 
he  answers,  gravely. 

He  is  standing  by  the  mantel,  leaning  his  elbow  on 
it,  facing  her.  She,  too,  steadfastly  regards  him. 

"  You  were  told  as  a  matter  of  course  when  you  first 
came.  Not  many  people  know  it — it  is  a  disgrace  that 
has  been  well  hidden.  But  it  is  a  disgrace  that  all  the 
world  may  soon  know.  That  woman  is  here." 

"  Aunt !"  he  cries.  "You  do  not  mean  to  say — not  the 
woman  he " 

"Married.  Yes.  Once  his  wife,  now  his  widow. 
And  her  little  girl — his  child." 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  exclaims  Vane  Valentine. 

Then  there  is  silence.  They  look  at  one  another 
across  the  red  light  of  the  fire,  two  proud,  dark  faces,  con- 
fronting, with  the  same  fear  and  pain  in  both. 

"  She  is  a  circus  performer — bare-back  rider — trap- 
ezist — so  she  tells  me.  She  dances  on  a  tight-rope.  She 
is  everything  that  is  brazen  and  bad,  and  vulgar  and 
horrible.  And  she  is  extremely  pretty.  She  is  here  with 
the  circus  in  the  town.  She  called  at  this  house  not 
more  than  two  hours  ago.  And  she  threatens  to  pro- 
claim to  the  whole  country — in  posters,  in  papers,  in 
3* 


58  MR.     VANE     VALENTINE. 

every  way,  that  she  is — has  been — George  Valentine's 
wife." 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  says  Mr.  Vane  Valentine. 

It  seems  the  only  thing  left  him  to  say.  He  stands 
absolutely  stunned  by  the  tremendousness  of  the  catas- 
trophe. He  stares  at  his  aunt  with  dilating  eyes,  from 
which  a  very  real  horror  looks. 

"She  calls  herself  Mimi  Trillon  at  present.  She 
lodges  with  Mrs.  Tinker's  cousin,  in  Clangville,  and  will 
remain  until  Saturday.  After  Saturday  the  whole  world 
is  to  know  who  she  is." 

"Good  Heaven  !"  repeats,  blankly,  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine. It  has  been  said  his  command  of  language  is  not 
great.  '•  Can — can  nothing  be  done,  you  know  ?"  he 
asks  in  blankest  accents.  "  I — I  wouldn't  for  anything, 
by  Jove !" 

"  She  offers  one  alternative.  I  mentioned  the  child — 
a  little  girl.  She  may  be  bought  off.  Her  price  is  the 
adoption,  education,  care  of  the  child,  and  an  annuity — 
a  tolerably  large  one,  I  fancy,  for  herself.  She  is  tired 
of  her  present  life — so  she  says  ;  she  will  leave  it,  give 
up  the  little  girl,  retain  her  incognito,  and  live  on  the 
annuity — if  it  is  provided.  Otherwise,  she  will  proclaim 
her  wrongs  and  her  identity  to  all  who  choose  to  listen. 
That  is  her  offer." 

"  By  Jove  !"  says,  still  more  blankly,  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine, "  she  is  a  cool  hand.  Mile.  Mimi  Trillon — yes,  I 
saw  her  name  blazing  all  over  the  town,  and  her  picture, 
too,  by  Jove  !  All  bare  neck  and  arms,  like  a  grisette  of 
Mabille.  And  that  is  George's  widow?  Good  Hea- 
ven f" 

"You  have  made  that  remark  a  number  of  times 
already,"  says,  disdainfully,  his  aunt.  "  There  is  no  use 
in  standing  there  and  saying,  '  Good  Heaven  !'  I  fancy 
Heaven  has  very  little  to  do  with  Mile.  Mimi  Trillon. 
But  she  is  the  person  she  claims  to  be  ;  there  is  no  doubt 
of  that.  Tinker  recognized  her  in  a  moment  from  the 


MR.     VANE     VALENTINE.  59 

• 

photograph  she  used  to  see.  She  has  been  good  enough 
to  give  me  until  Saturday  to  come  to  a  decision.  I  waive 
my  right  to  decide,  and  place  the  matter  in  your  hands. 
You  have  your  full  share  of  the  Valentine  pride,  and  you 
are  the  last  of  the  name.  You  will  bear  it — with  honor. 
I  trust — when  I  am  dead.  Decide — do  we  agree  or 
refuse?" 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  is  not  a  fool  ;  very  far  from  it 
where  a  point  of  family  honor  is  concerned.  He  decides 
with  a  promptitude  his  somewhat  weak-looking  mouth 
would  not  seem  to  promise. 

"  We  agree,  of  course.  We  must  agree.  Good  Heaven  ! 
there  is  no  other  course.  If  she  is  the  person  she  pro- 
fesses to  be,  and  has  a  right  to  the  name — good  God  ! 
only  to  think  of  that — a  circus  rider !  She  must  be 
bought  off  at  any  price.  Think  of  the  publicity  !  think 
of  your  feelings!  think  of  mine!  of  my  sister's — of 
Camilla's — of — of  everybody's — of  Sir  Rupert's  !  Good 
Heaven  !  it's  awful,  don't  you  know.  She  must  be  bought 
off  at  any  price,  and  at  once — at  once  !" 

i-  Very  well,"  responds  the  chilly  voice  of  the  lady. 
"  Do  not  excite  yourself ;  there  is  no  haste.  We  have 
until  Saturday,  remember — two  days.  Do  nothing  to- 
night ;  sleep  upon  it.  At  the  same  time,  I  may  say,  I 
think  with  you.  Money  is  nothing  in  a  case  like  this. 
She  must  be  bought  off ;  and  at  her  own  price." 

"  Of  course,"  says,  promptly,  Vane  Valentine  ;  "  but 
I  will  make  the  best  terms  I  can.  The  best  will  be  bad, 
no  doubt.  She  must  be  a  dused  sharper  all  through  ! 
It  is  well  she  will  give  up  the  child.  A  little  girl,  you 
say?  Aw,  that  is  best,  certainly,"  says  Mr.  Valentine, 
stroking  his  thin,  black  mustache,  and  reflecting  it  might 
have  been  "  dused  unpleasant  and  that "  if  George's 
child  had  been  a  son.  Inconceivable  ass,  George  Valen- 
tine— doing  the  all  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost  busi- 
ness in  the  nineteenth  century,  when  passions  and  emo- 
tions, and — aw — that  sort  of  thing,  are  extinct." 


60  MR.     VANE     VALENTINE. 

But  the  ill-wind  has  blown  him  (Vane)  into  a  prospec- 
tive fortune  and  title,  so  he  is  not  disposed  to  quarrel 
with  the  shade  of  his  late  idiotic  cousin,  nor  even  with 
his  rascally  relict,  if  he  can  buy  that  lady  off  at  a  fair 
price. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  circus  this  evening,"  he  says,  after  that 
ruminative  pause,  "and  take  a  look  at  her.  Pretty,  is 
she,  you  say  ?  But  of  course  ;  that  was  the  reason — con- 
found her! — that  she  fooled  your — him!  Yes,  it  is  well 
she  will  resign  the  child.  She,  of  course,  is  not  a  proper 
person  to  bring  up  a  little  girl,  and,  aw,  a  relative  of 
ours.  Good  Heaven  !  to  think  of  it !  I  will  see  her, 
and  settle  this,  aw,  dused  unpleasant  business,  you  know, 
for  good  and  all." 

"Very  well,"  madam  says,  wearily;  "and  I  think,  if 
you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  not  dine  this  evening.  I  will 
have  a  cup  of  tea  here,  and  retire  early.  I  over-fatigued 
myself  this  afternoon,  I  fancy." 

It  is  a  tired  and  aching  heart  that  weighs  down  Madam 
Valentine,  not  her  afternoon  constitutional  in  the  sun- 
shine, up  and  down  the  stoop.  Perhaps  Vane  Valentine 
guesses — he  has  more  penetration  than  he  looks  to  have. 
He  murmurs  a  few  appropriate  words  of  regret,  and,  a 
little  later,  goes  to  the  dining-room,  and  eats  his  dinner 
in  solitary  state,  somewhat  gloomy  and  preoccupied,  but 
with  a  very  good  appetite.  Then,  as  the  starry  October 
nightfalls  mistily  over  the  world,  puts  on  his  light  over- 
coat, and  sets  out  at  a  brisk  walk  for  the  town,  the  circus, 
and  his  first  sight  ot  Mile.  Mimi  Trillon. 


LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM.  61 

CHAPTER   VII. 
WHICH  TREATS   OF  LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 

HE  moon  is  shining  brightly  as  he  quits  the 
cottage,  a  frosty  moon,  and  the  sky  is  all 
alight  with  stars.  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  glances 
approvingly  upward  as  he  lights  a  cigar,  and 
opines  he  will  have  a  pleasant  night  for  his  return  walk. 
His  step  rings  like  steel  on  the  hard  ground,  and  reaches 
the  ear  of  madam,  sitting  alone  and  lonely  before  the 
fire.  She  glances  after  him — a  tall,  slender  figure — and 
in  that  look,  for  one^instant,  there  flashes  out  something 
strangely  akin  to  aversion.  For  he  stands  in  the  stead 
of  her  son,  her  only  son,  her  bright,  brave,  handsome, 
joyous  George,  the  latchet  of. whose  shoes,  at  his  worst, 
this  stiff  young  prig  is  unworthy  to  loose.  Yet  the  aver- 
sion is  unjust ;  it  is  no  fault  of  Vane  Valentine's  that  he 
is  here,  he  has  neither  sought  for,  nor  forced  himself  into 
the  position,  rather  his  kinship  has  been  thrust  upon  him, 
and  Katherine  Valentine  knows  it  well.  But  her  spirit 
is  sore  to-night,  she  is  a  very  desolate  woman,  with  all 
her  pride,  and  pedigree,  and  wealth,  an  old,  a  lonely,  a 
widowed,  a  childless  woman.  The  cruel  words  of  that 
other — George's  wife — George's  wife  !  how  strange  the 
thought — nay,  George's  widow — the  woman  he  has  loved, 
has  married,  the  mother  of  his  child,  ring  in  her  ears,  and 
will  not  be  exorcised. 

"  You  murdered  him  !  You  left  him  to  perish  in 
want !  You  killed  him  with  your  pride  !"  Oh  !  God,  is 
it  true  ?  George  in  want — suffering — dying  !  A  low, 
moaning  cry,  strange,  and  dreary,  and  terrible  to  hear, 
breaks  from  her  lips,  she  covers  her  face  with  her  hands 
there  as  she  sits  alone.  Here,  with  no  eye  to  see,  no  ear 
to  hear,  her  pride  may  drop  from  her  for  a  little,  and 


62  LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM. 

love  and  memory  awake.  Firelight  and  moonlight  meet 
and  mingle  in  the  room,  a  fitting  spectral  light  for  ghosts 
to  rise  out  of  their  graves  and  keep  her  company.  The 
house  is  very  still,  the  servants,  with  Mrs.  Tinker,  are  at 
supper.  Vane  Valentine  is  on  his  way  to  the  circus,  ex- 
cited and  stimulated  by  the  thought  of  beholding  the 
adventuress  who  erstwhile  fooled  his  infatuated  Cousin 
George.  Here,  alone,  she  is  free  to  break  her  heart  in 
silence,  after  the  fashion  of  some  strong  women.  To- 
morrow she  will  be  cold  and  hard,  no  trace  of  weakness 
or  tears  will  betray  her — to-night  she  is  at  liberty,  and 
tears  as  bitter,  as  burning  as  ever  childish  mother  shed, 
wet  the  pale  cheeks  as  she  sits  and  thinks. 

It  is  not  such  a  long  story,  this  tragedy,  to  think  over 
— the  tragedies  of  life  are  mostly  b4efly  told.  To  Kath- 
erine  Valentine  it  is  but  as  yesterday  since  she  last  kissed 
her  son — in  reality  it  is  eight  years  since  he  gave  up 
father,  mother,  home,  friends,  name,  a  fortune — all  that 
men  hold  best  worth  the  keeping,  for  sake  of  the  pink 
and  white  face,  the  bold,  blue  eyes,  and  flaxen  hair  she 
saw  a  few  hours  ago. 

Let  me  tell  you  the  story  she  thinks  out,  sitting  here, 
a  bowed  and  forsaken  figure,  that  Vane  Valentine  rumi- 
nates over,  with  contemptuous  wonder  on  his  way  to  the 
circus — the  old  story  of  a  "young  man  married,  a  young 
man  married." 

Some  forty  years  before  this  starry  October  night, 
another  Valentine — Austin  Mordred  Valentine — said 
good-by  to  old  England,  to  Valentine  Manor,  to  his 
elder  brother,  Sir  Rupert,  and  sailed  for  the  new  world 
to  seek  his  fortune.  Literally  to  seek  his  fortune,  and 
lully  resolved  to  find  it.  He  was  twenty  years  old,  good- 
looking,  well  educated,  fairly  clever,  possessed  of  plenty 
of  British  pluck  and  "go,"  and  backbone  ;  not  afraid  of 
plodding,  of  waiting,  of  hard  work,  absolutely  deter- 
mined to  succeed. 

That   sort  of  man  does  succeed.     Austin  Valentine 


LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM.  63 

succeeded  beyond  even  his  most  sanguine  expectations, 
and  like  all  men  of  ability  believed  implicitly  in  himself. 
He  took  to  trade,  the  first  of  the  name  of  Valentine  who 
had  ever  so  demeaned  himself.  They  had  been  free- 
booters, raiders,  hard  fighters,  hard  hunters,  hard  spend- 
thrifts ;  had  been  soldiers,  sailors,  rectors,  lived  hard, 
died  hard,  distinguished  themselves  in  many  ways,  but 
tradesmen  none  of  them  had  been,  until  young  Austin 
threw  off  the  traditions  and  shackles  of  centuries,  eman- 
cipated himself,  took  this  new  departure,  demeaned  him- 
self, and  made  his  fortune. 

It  was  time,  too,  for  the  Valentine  guineas  had  come 
to  a  very  low  ebb.  Riotous  living  is  apt  to  empty  al- 
ready depleted  coffers.  Sir  Rupert,  with  every  inch  of 
land  mortgaged,  the  manor  rented,  wandering  about  the 
Continent,  striving  drearily  to  make  the  most  of  nothing, 
was  perhaps  a  greater  object  of  compassion  than  Austin 
in  the  shipping  business  and  fur  trade,  with  wealth  roll- 
ing in  like  a  golden  river,  a  millionaire  already  at  thirty 
years.  But  Sir  Rupert  did  not  think  so. 

From  the  heights  of  his  untarnished  position,  as  one 
of  the  oldest  baronets  of  the  baronetage,  he  looked  in 
honor  from  the  first,  on  his  only  brother's  decadence, 
spoke  of  him  always  as  "  poor  Austin,"  and  to  do  him 
justice  declined  to  avail  himself  in  any  way  of  such  ill- 
gotten  gain.  A§stin  laughed  ;  he  was  philosophical  as 
well  as  shrewd,  went  on  the  even  tenor  of  his  wealthy 
way,  and  finally  at  three-and-thirty  looked  about  him  for 
a  wife. 

He  found  one  there  in  Toronto  ready  to  his  hand,  a  rara 
arif,  possessing  in  herself  every  quality  he  most  desired 
in  a  wife — beauty,  family,  high-breeding,  an  ancient 
name.  Her  father  was  Colonel  Hamilton,  she  was  the 
eldest  of  a  family  of  daughters,  scantily  provided  for. 
Like  the  Valentines,  the  Hamiltons  were  uncomfortably 
poor  and  proud. 

The  young  lady  had  many  suitors,  was  a  belle  and  a 


64  LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM. 

"toast"  in  the  rather  exclusive  circle  in  which  she 
moved,  but  from  the  first  Austin  Valentine  stood  to  win. 
Nothing  succeeds  like  success.  His  name,  his  family,  his 
good  looks,  his  riches,  all  were  in  his  favor. 

Colonel  Hamilton  moved  with  the  world,  and  had  no 
patrician's  scruples  in  regard  to  the  shipping  interest 
and  vast  fur  trade  with  Indians  and  trappers,  whatever 
the  stately  Karherine  may  have  had. 

But  she  was  a  prudent  young  lady,  too ;  not  so  very 
young  either,  seven-and-twenty  perhaps,  and  there  were 
all  the  younger  ones,  and  life  was  rather  a  dingy  affair 
in  the  crowded  household,  and,  besides,  she  was  not  sen- 
timental at  all  ;  but  she  really — well — had  a  very  sincere 
regard  and — and  esteem  (it  is  difficult  to  find  the  correct 
word)  for  Mr.  Austin  Valentine. 

She  said  yes  when  he  proposed,  and  looked  quite  re- 
gal in  her  white  satin  and  point  laces  and  pearls,  every 
one  said,  on  her  wedding-day. 

They  went  abroad  for  a  year,  met  Sir  Rupert  still 
drearily  economi2ing  on  the  Continent,  and  the  bride- 
groom received  his  forgiveness  and  blessing  and  two 
lean  fingers  to  shake.  He  even  promised  to  come  over 
and  visit  them  "  some  time,"  an  indefinite  period  that 
never  arrived. 

They  visited  Manor  Valentine,  which  fine  ancestral 
old  place  Mrs.  Austin  resented  seeing  in  the  possession  of 
aliens,  much  more  than  either  of  the  brothers. 

"I'll  pay  off  these  confounded  mortages,  and  come 
and  live  here  one  day,"  said  Mr.  Austin,  coolly. 

"  And  I  shall  be  Lady  Valentine,"  thought  his  bride. 

For  all  the  world  knew  Sir  Rupert  never  meant  to 
,  marry — did  not  care  for  that  sort  of  thing — was  a  con- 
firmed invalid,  hypochondriac  rather,  absorbed  in  himself 
and  his  many  ailments. 

But  "creaking  doors  hang  long" — confirmed  invalids 
are  mostly  tenacious  of  life,  and  Mrs.  Austin  never  be- 
came my  Lady  Valentine 


LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM.  65 

On  this  October  night  Austin  Valentine  has  lain  for 
years  under  the  turf,  while  the  hypochondriacal  elder 
brother  is  still  on  it,  and  likely  indefinitely  there  to 
remain. 

They  returned  to  Toronto  and  set  up  house-keeping 
or.  a  princely  scale. 

Katherine  Valentine  amply  renumerated  herself  for 
the  dingy  years  of  her  maiden  life.  She  spent  money 
lavishly,  extravagantly,  on  every  whim  and  caprice,  until 
even  generous  Austin  winced.  But  he  signed  the  big 
checks  and  laughed. 

Let  it  go — she  did  honor  to  him,  to  his  name,  to  their 
position  as  leaders  of  society — her  tastes  were  aesthetic, 
and  aesthetic  tastes  are  mostly  expensive. 

Everything  turned  to  gold  in  his  hands,  he  was  a 
modern  Midas  without  the  ass'  ears.  Let  her  spend  as 
she  might  the  coffers  would  still  be  full. 

And  then  after  ten  years  a  son  was  born. 

When  a  prince  of  the  blood  is  born,  cannons  boom, 
bells  ring,  and  the  woiM  throws  up  its  hat  and  hoorays. 
None  of  these  things  were  done  when  Katherine  Valen- 
tine's son  came  into  the  world,  but  it  was  an  event  for 
all  that. 

Toronto  talked,  there  was  feasting  below  stairs,  there 
were  congratulations  from  very  august  quarters,  a  gov- 
ernor-general and  an  earl's  daughter  were  his  sponsors, 
the  cnristening  presents  were  something  exquisite.  Sir 
Rupert  wrote  a  very  correct  letter  from  Spa — a  weak 
little  pean  of  rejoicing,  but  very  warmly  welcomed.  He 
looked  on  the  boy  as  his  successor,  hoped  he  would  grow 
up  to  be  an  honor  to  the  name  of  Valentine — had  no 
doubt  of  it  with  such  a  mother,  trusted  he  inherited  some 
of  her  beauty,  must  be  excused  from  sending  anything 
more  substantial  than  good  wishes,  the  distance,  etc. 

They  named  the  baby  George,  after  his  paternal  grand- 
father— George  Hamilton  Valentine  it  stood  on  the 
record,  and  the  happiness  of  Austin  and  Katherine  Val- 


66  LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM. 

cntine  was  complete.  Surely  if  ever  a  child  came  into 
the  world  with  the  traditional  silver  spoon  in  its  mouth, 
it  was  this  one.  He  did  inherit  his  mother's  statuesque 
beauty — he  was  an  uncommonly  handsome  child,  healthy, 
merry — a  boy  to  gladden  any  mother's  heart. 

Years  passed — there  was  no  other  child.  It  can  be 
imagined,  perhaps,  the  life  this  "golden  youth"  led,  it 
can  hardly  be  described.  And  yet  he  was  not  spoiled. 
Idolizing  his  mother  might  be,  but  judicious  she  was 
also,  and  very  firm — firmness  was  a  salient  point  of  her 
character.  But  she  loved  him,  he  was  the  one  creature 
on  earth  she  ever  had  absolutely  loved — she  loved  him 
with  all  her  heart  and  strength,  and  mind  and  soul,  as 
saints  ove  God,  as  He  above  should  be  loved.  No  hu- 
man heart  can  make  a  human  idol,  and  not  pay  the  pen- 
alty even  here  below,  in  heart-break  and  despair.  And 
Madam  Valentine  was  no  exception.  She  would  not  have 
him  sent  abroad  to  school.  His  uncle,  Sir  Rupert, 
wished  him  to  go  to  Eton  and  Oxford,  as  an  English  lad, 
and  a  future  baronet,  should,  but  neither  father  nor 
mother  could  bear  their  darling  out  of  their  sight.  The 
boy  himself  wished  it  ;  he  was  a  bold,  bright,  fearless 
little  fellow  at  ten,  with  big,  black,  laughing  eyes,  a  curly 
crop  of  black  brown  hair,  the  whitest  teeth,  the  most 
genial  laugh  in  the  world.  Even  if  he  had  not  been  a 
prince  by  right  divine  of  his  birth  and  heirship,  he  would 
still  have  been  charming  with  that  frank  bonny  face,  and 
winsome  smile  and  glance.  He  was  born  a  prince  by 
right  of  that  kingly  brow,  and  handsome  face — he  won 
all  hearts — even  as  a  beggar  he  would  still  have  been 
born  a  conqueror.  As  heir  to  fabulous  wealth,  to  a  title, 
it  is  again  more  easy  to  imagine  than  describe  what  he 
was  in  the  provincial  city  of  Toronto. 

He  grew  and  prospered  ;  he  had  masters  for  every 
language,  every  science,  every  ology  under  the  sun.  He 
had  his  horse  and  his  dogs,  and  he  drove,  and  he  rode, 
and  he  studied,  or  let  it  alone,  and  made  glad  the  hearts 


LOWS     YOUNG    DREAM.  67 

of  a  doting  man  and  woman.  But  mostly  he  studied,  he 
was  fairly  industrious,  he  had  his  own  notions  of  noblesse 
oblige,  and  what  it  became  a  prince  to  know  ere  he  came 
into  his  kingdom.  He  had  a  resident  tutor,  besides  these 
masters,  he  had  a  pretty  taste  for  music,  played  the  piano 
and  sang,  until  his  mother  thought  him  a  modern  Mo- 
zart, did  himself  credit  on  the  violin,  painted  a  little, 
sketched  a  great  deal,  wrote  Latin  verses  with  fluency, 
spoke  French  and  German.  With  it  all  he  grew  and 
grew  ;  shot  up  like  Jack's  beanstalk,  indeed,  and  at 
eighteen  stood  five-feet-eleven,  in  his  very  much  em- 
broidered velvet  slippers. 

As  a  matter  of  course  he  broke  hearts,  though  eigh- 
teen is  full  young  for  a  gentleman  to  go  energetically 
into  that  business.  But  the  truth  is,  he  could  not  help  it. 
He  looked  and — played  the  mischief  !  Those  darlf  bright 
eyes  that  laughed  so  frankly  on  all  the  world,  wrought 
sad  havoc  with  sixteen-year-old  hearts — indeed,  with 
hearts  old  enough  to  know  better. 

He  waltzed — '•  ohl  like  an  angel !"  cried  out  a  chorus 
of  young  soprano  voices.  He  sang  deliriously.  He  was 
past  master  of  the  art  of  croquet,  of  flirtation,  of  bil- 
liards, boating,  archery,  base-ball ;  what  was  there  he  did 
not  do  to  perfection?  At  eighteen  and  a  half,  his  mother 
was  not  the  only  lady  in  the  Canadian  universe  who 
thought  the  sun  arose  with  his  rising,  and  bet  when  his 
bewildering  presence  disappeared. 

And  just  here,  when  Eden  was  at  its  fairest,  sunniest, 
sweetest,  the  serpent  came,  and  after  him — the  deluge  ! 

"  Mother,"  said  George  Hamilton  Valentine,  one  day 
at  breakfast,  "  I  think  I  shall  take  a  run  over  the  border, 
and  spend  a  week  or  two  in  New  York.  Parker  can 
come,  too,  if  you  think  the  wicked  Gothamites  will  gob- 
ble your  only  one  up  alive.  Too  prolonged  a  course  of 
Toronto  is  apt  to  pall  on  a  frivolous  mind." 

Of  course,  she  said  Yes.  lie  did  pretty  much  as  he 
pleased  in  everything  by  this  time.  Even  her  gen:!e. 


68  LOVES     YOUNG    DREAM. 

silken  chain  was  felt  as  a  fetter,  and  rebelled  against. 
He  took  the  discreet  resident  tutor,  Mr.  Parker,  and  a 
drawing-room  car  for  New  York.  But  he  did  not  return 
in  a  week,  nor  in  two,  nor  in  three  ;  and  at  the  end  of 
five,  Mr.  Parker  wrote  a  letter,  that  fell  like  a  bursting 
bomb  into  the  palatial,  mansion  at  home,  and  caused  a 
message  to  flash  over  the  wires  with  electric  swiftness, 
summoning  the  wanderers  back. 

They  came  back.  Nothing  was  said.  A  glance  of 
intelligence  passed  between  madam  and  the  tutor  ;  then 
she  looked  furtively,  anxiously  at  her  son.  He  was  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  ever,  in  high  health,  fine  spirits,  and 
full  of  his  recent  flying  trip.  The  mother  drew  a  deep 
breath  of  relief.  There  was  no  change  that  she  could 
see.  Only  Mrs.  Tinker,  who  had  washed  Master  Georgie's 
face  at  five  years  old,  and  combed  his  hair,  and  kissed 
him  to  the  point  of  extinction,  saw  a  change.  She  did 
more ;  she  saw  her  photograph.  A  confidant  George 
must  have  ;  and  after  a  hundred  extorted  vows  of  secrecy, 
reducing  Mrs.  Tinker  almost  to  the  verge  of  tears  with 
protestations  of  eternal  silence  he  forced  from  her,  he 
showed  her  the  photographs.  And  Mrs.  Tinker  looked 
at  them,  and  shrieked  a  shriek,  and  covered  her  shocked 
old  eyes  with  her  virtuous  old  hands.  For — the  hussy 
had  no  clothes  on,  or  next  to  none,  or  what  Mrs.  Tinker 
considered  none — never  having  seen  the  Black  Crook,  or 
a  ballet,  or  anything  enlightened  or  Parisian,  in  her 
stupid  old  life. 

"Oh!  Master  George,  my  dear,  how  can  you  !  The 
wicked,  improper  young — young  person  !"  cried  Mrs. 
T  nker,  in  strong  reprobation  ;  "  take  them  away,  Master 
Georgie,  my  dear — do'ee,  now.  I  wonder  at  you  for 
showing  me  such  things  !  I  do,  indeed  !" 

"  Oh,  come,  I  say  !"  cries  George,  but  being  only  a  boy, 
and  nearly  as  innocent  as  Mrs.  Tinker  herself,  he  blushes 
a  fire  red  too.  "  Look  here,  you  dear  old  goose  !  Don't 
you  see  she  is  in  tights?  How  could  she  perform  on  the 


LOV&S     YOUNG    DREAM.  69 

trapeze  with  petticoats  flapping  about  her  heels  ?  Here 
is  one.  Now,  look  at  this  ;  she  has  a  dress  on  her — well, 
a  costume  ;  they're  all  in  costume.  Bother  your  modesty  ! 
You're  old  enough  to  know  better!  Look  here,  I  say; 
did  you  ever  in  all  your  life  see  any  one  half  so  lovely?" 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  half  so  indecent !  Do  you  call 
that  a  dress — that  thing  !  Why,  it  don't  cover  her  nasty 
knees  !  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  take  "em  away,  and  put 
'em  in  the  fire  !  She  must  be  a  little  trollop  to  be  took 
in  that — that  scandalous  costoom,  if  that's  its  name. 
What  would  your  blessed  mamma  say,  Master  George, 
if  she  saw  them  sinful  pictures  ?" 

"  I  say,  look  here,"  says  Master  George,  rather  alarmed, 
"don't  you  go  and  say  anything  to  the  mater  about  this. 
You're  as  good  as  sworn,  you  know.  And  I'll  thank  you 
not  to  call  names,  Mrs.  Tinker.  She's  no  more  a  trollop 
than — '  than  you  are,' "  is  on  the  point  of  George's 
tongue,  but  having  a  general  respect  for  old  age,  and  a 
very  particular  respect  for  Mrs.  Tinker,  he  suppresses  it, 
and  stands  looking  rather  sulky. 

"  Bless  the  dear  boy  !"  cries  Mrs.  Tinker,  mollified  at 
sight  of  her  darling  in  dudgeon  ;  "  I  won't,  then,  only, 
if  she's  a  friend  of  yours,  Master  Georgie,  do  beg  of  her 
to  put  on  her  clothes  next  time !  Do  'ee  now,  like  a 
lovey !" 

George  laughs  ;  it  is  not  in  his  sunny,  boyish  nature 
to  be  irate  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time. 

"I'll  tell  her,"  he  says,  gleefully;  "she'll  enjoy  the 
joke.  Tinker,  she's  just  the  jolliest,  prettiest,  sweetest 
little  soul  the  sun  shines  on  to-day !  And  she's  the 
dearest  friend  I  have  in  the  world." 

"Ah  !"  says  Tinker,  with  a  deep  groan.  "What's  her 
name,  Master  George?" 

"Mimi ;  isn't  it  a  pretty  name?  It  seems  to  suit  her 
somehow.  Mimi  Trillon." 

He  pauses     a  dreamy  rapturous  look  comes  into  his 


70  LOVE'S     YOUNG    DREAM. 

eyes;  a  flush  passes  over  his  face.  "Mirai!  Mimi !"  he 
repeats,  softly,  to  himself. 

Mrs  Tinker  knows  the  symptoms.  At  an  early  pe- 
riod ol  her  career  the  fatal  disease  attacked  herself. 
Tinker  was  the  object,  and  she  attained  Tinker.  He  is 
dead  and  gone  now,  and  it  is  thirty  years  ago,  but  Mrs. 
Tinker  remembers,  and  a  vague,  and  sudden,  and  great 
dread  for  her  boy  stirs  within  her. 

"  What  is  she,  Master  George  ?"  she  asks  next. 

"  Well,  she's — she's  a  professional  lady,"  answers 
George. 

The  reply  does  not  come  fluently.  He  looks  tenderly 
down  at  the  picture  he  holds,  as  if  he  would  like  to  kiss 
it  while  he  speaks. 

"  She  is  not  rich,  she — she  works  for  her  living. 
She's — a  sort  of  actress.  But  she's  the  dearest,  prettiest 
little  love  in  all  the  world." 

"She  looks  like  a  jumping  Jack!"  cries  out  Mrs. 
Tinker,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  feeling,  "and  a  misbe- 
haved jumping  Jack,  at  that  !" 

With  which  she  goes,  and  George  goes,  too,  laughing. 
She  feels  that  duty  bids  her  tell  all  this  to  Madam  Valen- 
tine, but  loyalty  to  Master  George  forbids  ;  she  cannot 
bring  herself  to  tell  tales  cf  her  boy.  So  she  says  noth- 
ing, but  fears  much,  and  trusts  to  time  to  set  crooked 
things  straight,  and  to  absence  to  make  this  youthful 
swain  forget. 

But  he  does  not  forget ;  neither  does  the  professional 
lady  he  met  in  New  York,  doing  the  flying  trapeze.  For, 
,one  day,  some  two  months  later,  in  pulling  out  his  hand- 
kerchief, he  pulls  a  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  and  quits 
the  room  without  noticing  it.  It  is  his  mother  who 
chances  to  pick  it  up.  The  peaky,  school-girlish  looking 
scrawl  surprises  her. 

"Dear  old  Georgie,"  it  begins,  and  the  signature  is 
"  Your  ever-loving  little  'Jumping  Jack.'  " 

Madam  Valentine,    inexpressibly  horrified,    reads  it 


LOVERS     YOUNG    DREAM.  71 

through,  her  face  flashing  with  haughty  amaze  and 
disgust.  Then  another  feeling — fear — comes,  and  turns 
her  white  to  the  very  lips.  Illy  spelt,  illy  written,  vul- 
gar in  every  word,  it  is  yet  a  love-letter — a  love-letter  in 
which  a  promised  marriage  is  spoken  of.  The  signature 
puzzles  her.  George  has  told  his  beloved  Mrs.  Tinker's 
fancy  name  for  her,  and  it  has  tickled  the  erratic  humor 
of  the  vivacious  Mimi.  She  has  adopted  it. 

"  Some  horrible  pet  name,  no  doubt,"  the  lady  thinks. 
"  Gracious  Heaven !  what  a  strange  infatuation  for 
George  !" 

Nothing  is  said.  Mr.  Valentine  is  consulted,  is 
shocked,  is  enraged,  is  panic-stricken,  but  his  wife  is 
convinced  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  She  will  take  him  away, 
and  at  once — at  once  !  They  will  go  to  Europe  ;  he 
shall  make  the  tour  of  the  world,  if  necessary,  with  Sir 
Rupert ;  he  shall  never  return  to  Toronto.  What  a  mercy 
— what  a  direct  interposition  of  Providence — that  this 
letter  fell  into  her  hands  when  it  did  ! 

George  is  told  the  wish  of  his  heart  shall  be  gratified. 
He  shall  throw  up  study,  and  travel  for  the  next  three 
years.  Uncle  Rupert  wishes  it  so  much  !  She  will  go 
with  him  to  Spa,  where  Sir  Rupert  at  present  is,  will 
spend  the  winter  in  Italy,  and  return  home  in  the  spring. 
Is  not  George  delighted  ? 

George  does  not  look  delighted.  Six  months  ago  he 
would  have  done  so,  but  we  change  in  six  months.  He 
looks  reflective,  and  a  good  deal  put  out,  and  goes  up  to 
his  room  and  writes  rather  a  long  letter,  and  takes  it  to 
the  post  himself.  Then  he  waits. 

Preparations  begin,  go  on  rapidly;  in  a  week  they 
will  be  ready  to  start.  But  just  two  days  before  the 
week  ends  the  terrible  blow  falls.  Fie  goes  up  to  his 
room  one  night  and — is  seen  no  more  !  He  makes  a 
moonlight  flitting,  with  a  knapsack  and  a  well-filled 
pocket-book.  He  is  "o'er  the  border  and  awa'  wi  "— 


72  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN. 

Mimi  Trillon,  the  trapezlst,  the  tight-rope  dancer,  the 
"fair  girl  graduate  with  golden  hair"  from  the  back 
slums  of  New  York  ! 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
LOST    FOR    A    WOMAN. 

E  is  gone !  They  do  not  hear  from  him  for 
two  weeks,  and  long  days  before  that  the 
marriage  is  an  accomplished  fact.  He  sends 
a  copy  of  the  Herald  containing  the  marriage 
notice  heavily  inked,  and  a  lengthy  letter  petitioning 
forgiveness  —  a  long  pean  of  praise  of  his  beauteous 
bride.  He  calls  her  an  actress — he  wants  to  let  them 
down  gently,  and  come  to  the  circus  and  the  trapeze  by 
degrees.  It  matters  not — were  she  a  queen  of  tragedy — 
as  stainless  as  some  queens  of  tragedy  have  been,  it  would 
still  matter  not.  Utter  ruin  he's  befallen,  disgrace  so 
deep  that  no  condoning  can  be  possible.  He  might  have 
died  in  these  gallant  and  golden  days  of  his  youth,  and 
their  hearts  might  have  broken,  but  still  broken  proudly, 
and  his  memory  been  cherished  as  the  one  beautiful  and 
perfect  thing  of  earth — too  perfect  to  last.  That  radiant 
memory  would  have  consoled.  Now  there  can  be  no- 
thing of  this.  Blank  ruin,  utter  misery,  deepest  shame, 
covers  them  as  a  garment — it  is  in  their  hearts  to  curse 
him  in  the  first  fre.izy  of  woe.  He  is  worse  than  dead,  a 
thousand  times  worse.  They  burn  his  portrait,  they 
erase  his  name  from  the  family  Bible,  they  hang  from 
sight  and  existence  everything  that  ever  belonged  to 
him,  they  tear  his  letters  to  atoms — they  would  cover 
their  heads  with  ashes,  and  wear  sackcloth  if  it  could 
help  them  to  forget.  Their  hearts  go  in  sackcloth  and 


LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN.  73 

ashes,  all  the  rest  of  their  lives.  The  world  of  Toronto 
is  stirred  to  its  deepest  depths  ;  it  is  more  than  a  nine- 
days'  wonder — it  is  whispered  with  bated  breath,  and 
awe-stricken  faces,  in  very  patrician  families  indeed,  for 
many  and  many  a  day. 

And  so  George  Valentine  gives  the  world  for  love, 
and  his  place  knows  him  no  more. 

His  father  and  mother  live,  and  bear  their  misery  and 
shame,  and  after  the  first  blow,  show  a  brave  front  to  the 
world.  It  is  in  their  nature.  They  hold  themselves 
more  defiantly  erect  if  possible,  but  he  would  be  a  brave 
man  who  would  venture  to  name  their  son  to  either  of 
them.  And  years  go  by,  and  richer  and  still  richer 
Austin  Valentine  grows,  and  Sir  Rupert  writes  from 
Nice  in  a  despondent  strain,  that  he  is  breaking  fast,  and 
that  the  actress  stands  a  chance  of  writing  herself  Lady 
Valentine  all  too  soon.  Lady  Valentine  she  may  be — 
curse  her  !  Austin  Valentine  mutters,  for  he,  too,  is  a 
broken  man,  but  never  heir  to  his  millions.  He  bethinks 
him  all  at  once  of  a  youthful  cousin,  also  a  Valentine, 
half  forgotten  until  now,  very  poor,  and  living  in  a  re- 
mote part  of  Cornwall,  and  sends  for  him  at  once,  with 
the  assurance  that  if  he  pleases  him  he  shall  be  his  heir. 

Vane  Valentine  comes,  wondering,  and  hardly  able 
to  realize  his  fairy  future.  He  has  been  brought  up  in 
poverty  and  obscurity — has  never  expected  anything  else. 
Three  lives  stand  between  him  and  the  baronetcy,  Sir 
Rupert,  Austin,  George — what  chance  has  he  ?  Take 
away  these  three  lives  and  give  him  the  title — what  is 
there  for  him  to  keep  it  up  on  ?  No,  Vane  Valentine 
has  hoped  for  nothing,  and  Fate  thrusts  fortune  in  a  mo- 
ment into  his  hands. 

He  comes — a  slim,  dark  youth  of  twenty,  with  good 
manners,  and  not  much  to  say  for  himself.  A  little  stiff 
and  formal,  his  uncle  (so  he  is  told  to  term  Mr.  Austin 
Valentine)  finds  him — a  contrast  in  all  ways  to  the  heir 
who  is  lost.  All  the  better  for  that,  perhaps  ;  no  chance 


74  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN. 

trick  of  resemblance  will  ever  make  their  hearts  bleed. 
It  is  a  young  man  this,  who  will  never  do  a  foolish  or  a. 
generous,  or  a  reckless,  or  an  unselfish  thing;  who  will 
weigh  well  the  name  and  status  of  the  lady  he  marries ; 
whose  heart  will  never  run  away  with  his  head. 

"  The  heart  of  a  cucumber  fried  in  snow,"  quotes, 
contemptuously,  Madam  Valentine.  "  We  need  ^iot  be 
afraid  of  him.  What  a  pompous  young  prig  the  little 
fool  is !" 

But  Vane  Valentine  never  dreams  of  the  estimate 
these  rich  relations  of  his  hold  him  in.  He  thinks  ex- 
ceedingly well  of  himself,  and  infers,  with  the  complacent 
simplicity  of  extreme  conceit,  that  all  the  world  does  the 
same.  The  Valentine  blue  blood  runs  in  his  calm  veins, 
his  manners  and  morals  are  of  the  best,  his  temper  well 
under  control,  his  taste  in  dress  verging  on  perfection, 
his  health  good  without  being  vulgarly  robust,  his  edu- 
cation leaves  nothing  to  be  desired — what  more  will  you  ? 

He  accepts  with  complacent  ease  the  golden  showers 
Fortune  rains  upon  him,  does  not  oppress  his  benefac- 
tress with  words  of  gratitude,  feels  that  Destiny  has 
come  to  a  sense  of  her  duty,  and  that  the  "  king  has  got 
his  own  again." 

He  writes  long  letters  to  Cornwall  to  his  sister 
Dorothea,  who  has  trained  him  since  the  death  of  his 
parents  in  early  boyhood,  and  to  a  certain  Cousin  Camilla, 
of  whom  he  is  very  fond,  and  whose  picture  he  wears  in 
a  locket. 

And  Austin  and  Katherine  Valentine  accept  him  for 
what  he  is,  and  make  the  most  of  him  ;  and  all  the  time 
the  aching  void  is  there  in  their  hearts,  and  aches  and 
aches  wearily  the  long  year  round. 

Mr.  Valentine  visibly  droops,  breaks,  retires  from 
business,  and  begins  that  other  business  in  whose  per- 
formance we  must  all  one  day  engage — the  business  of 
dying. 

The  name  of  the  lost  idol  is  never  spoken  between 


LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN.  75 

this  father  and  mother.  If  the  waters  of  Lethe  were  no 
fable,  they  would  drink  of  it  greedily,  and  so  forget. 
But  they  remember  only  the  more,  perhaps,  for  this  un- 
broken silence. 

Six  months  after  the  arrival  of  Vane  Valentine  his 
twentieth  birthday  occurs,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
the  thunderbolt  had  riven  their  hearts,  a  party  is  given 
at  Valentine  House,  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  It  is  a 
dinner  party,  to  which,  in  addition  to  the  young  people 
invited  to  meet  the  heir,  many  very  great  personages  are 
bidden  and  come.  It  is  a  dinner  party  that  Mrs.  Tinker, 
for  one,  never  forgets.  Something  occurs  that  night 
that  is  marked  with  a  white  stone  forever  after  in  her 
life. 

No  one  has  mourned  the  lost  heir  more  deeply,  more 
despairingly  than  she.  Hers  is  gentler  grief  than  that  of 
the  parents,  it  is  unmixed  with  anger  or  bitterness — her 
tears  flow  at  first  in  ceaseless  streams. 

She  has  loved  her  boy  almost  as  dearly  as  his  own 
mother,  only  with  a  love  that  has  in  it  no  pride,  no  baser 
alloy  with  its  pure  metal.  She  has  loved  and  she  has 
lost. 

She  is  a  stout,  unromantic-looking  old  woman,  but  to 
love  and  lose  is  as  bitter  to  her  faithful  heart,  it  may  be, 
as  though  she  were  a  slim,  sentimental  maid  of  sixteen. 

Her  handsome  Master  George,  her  bonny  boy,  the 
apple  of  her  eye  and  the  pride  of  her  life — what  was  the 
world  without  him  ! 

And  on  this  night  of  the  birthday  fete  some  bitter 
drops  rain  from  the  royal  old  eyes  at  the  thought  of  the 
days  and  the  heir  forever  gone. 

She  has  resented  the  coming  of  this  young  usurper 
from  the  first,  but  she  has  resented  in  silence,  of  course 
— she  has  never  liked  him,  she  would  feel  it  as  treason  to 
her  lost  darling  to  like  him  even  if  he  were  likeable. 

But  he  is  not,  he  is  black-a-vised,  he  is  'aughty,  he 


76  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN.% 

has  a  nasty,  stiff  way  with  servants,  he  is  stingy,  he  loves 
money. 

Yes  he  loves  money  Mrs.  Tinker  decides  with  dis- 
gust, he  has  been  brought  up  to  count  every  penny  he 
spends,  and  he  counts  them  yet.  He  will  not  let  himself 
lack  for  anything,  but  he  never  gives  away,  he  never 
throws  a  beggar  a  penny,  nor  a  servant  a  tip.  He  is 
profuse  in  his  "  Aw — thanks,"  but  this  politeness  is  the 
only  thing  about  him  he  is  lavish  of. 

So  on  this  night  of  the  dinner  party,  when  Mr.  Vane 
is  twenty,  and  all  the  city  is  called  upon  to  feast  and  re- 
joice, Mrs.  Tinker  sits  in  her  own  comfortable  little 
room,  and  wipes  her  eyes  and  her  glasses,  and  looks  at 
the  fire,  and  shakes  her  head,  and  is  dismally  retrospec- 
tive. 

It  is  a  March  night,  and  the  wildest  of  its  kind.  It  is 
late  in  the  month,  and  March  is  going  out  like  a  lion, 
roaring  like  Bottom,  the  weaver,  "so  that  it  would  do 
any  man's  heart  good  to  hear  him." 

It  might,  if  the  man  were  seated  like  Susan  Tinker  at 
a  cheery  coal  fire,  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of  buttered 
toast  at  her  elbow,  but  if  he  were  breasting  the  elemental 
war,  as  was  the  man  who  slowly  made  his  way  to  a  side 
entrance  of  the  great  house — itafco  might  not. 

A  tall  man,  in  a  rough  great-coat,  and  fur  cap,  strid- 
ing along  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  and  sleet,  over  the 
slippery  city  pavements,  and  who  rang  the  bell  of  the 
side  door,  and  shrunk  back  into  the  shadow  as  it  was  an- 
swered. 

One  of  the  men-servants  opened  it,  and  peered  out 
into  the  wild  blackness  of  the  night. 

"Well,  my  man,"  he  said,  espying  the  tall,  dark 
shadow,  "and  what  may  you  want,  you  know?" 

"  I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Tinker.  She  lives  here,  doesn't 
she?"  the  shadow  replied. 

"Well  she  do,"  the  footman  admits,  leisurely ;  "but 


LOST     FOR    A     WOMAN.  77 

whether  she'll  want  to  see  you — what's  your  business 
my  good  foliar?" 

"My  business  is  with  Mrs.  Tinker.  Just  go  and  tell 
her  I  have  a  message  for  her  I  think  she  will  be  glad  to 
hear— -my  good  fellar  !"  in  excellent  imitation  of  the 
pompous  tone  of  Plush.  "  And  look  sharp,  will  you  ? 
It  is  not  exactly  a  balmy  evening  in  June." 

"  Well,  it's  not"  says  Plush,  reflecting  as  if  that  fact 
strikes  him  now  for  the  first  time.  "  I'll  tell  her,"  and 
goes. 

The  shadow  leans  wearily  against  the  door  and  waits. 
Dinner  is  over  above  stairs,  and  music,  and  coffee,  and 
conversation  are  on.  Some  lines  he  has  read,  some- 
where, long  before,  and  forgotten  until  this  moment, 
start  up  in  his  mind,  as  he  stands  and  looks  with  tired, 
haggard  eyes,  up  at  these  gleaming  and  lace-draped  win- 
dows. 

"I  note  the  flow  of  the  weary  years 

Like  the  flow  of  this  flowing  river, 
But  dead  in  my  heart  are  its  hopes  and  fears 

Forever  and  forever ! 
For  never  a  light  in  the  distance  gleams, 

No  eye  looks  out  for  the  rover, 
Oh  !  sweet  be  your  sleep,  love,  sweet  be  your  dreams, 

Under  the  blossoming  clover, 
The  sweet-scented,  bee-haunted  clover  !" 

A  strange,  sudden  pang  rends  his  heart. 

"  Oh,  God  !"  he  cries  out,  "  am  I  indeed  forgotten  ! 
They  feast  and  make  merry,  and  I — well,  I  have  earned 
it  all.  Even  my  mother — but  mothers  forget  too,  when 
their  hearts  are  wrung  and  broken,  and  she  had  always 
more  pride  than  love.  And  through  both  her  love  and 
pride,  T  stabbed  her.  Forgotten  !  what  other  fate  have  I 
deserved  than  to  be  forgotten  !" 

"  You  wanted  me,  my  friend?"  says  a  gentle  voice,  a 
dear  old  voice  he  remembers  well,  and  a  sob  rises  in  his 
throat  as  he  hears  it  again  after  long  years.  He  looks 
from  under  the  visor  of  his  fur  cap,  and  sees  Mrs.  Tinker. 


7  8  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN. 

She  is  alone,  the  tall,  plush  young  man  has  beer  sum« 
moned  to  upper  spheres.  No  one  is  near.  He  takes  a 
step  forward. 

"  Hush  !"  he  says  ;  "  do  not  be  alarmed  —  do  not 
sci cam.  Look  at  me — have  you,  too,  forgotten  me,  Mrs. 
Tinker  ?" 

He  lifts  his  fur  cap  ;  the  gas-flare  falls  upon  his  face. 
Forgotten  him  !  Oh  !  never,  never,  never !  She  clasps 
her  hands,  there  is  a  wordless,  sobbing  sound,  not 
scream.  She  stands  with  dilated  eyes,  and  joy — joy  un- 
utterable, making  the  old  face  beautiful. 

"  Dear  old  friend,  yes,  I  see  you  remember.  It  is 
your  scapegrace — your  runaway  '  Master  Georgie  '  come 
back." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear  !"  is  all  Mrs.  Tinker 
can  say.  And  now  down  the  wrinkled  cheeks  tears  roll 
— tears  of  joy  beyond  all  words.  "  Oh  !  my  own  boy  !  my 
own  boy — my  own  dear,  dear,  dearest  Master  George !" 

He  takes  the  old  hand,  wrinkled,  toil-worn,  and 
kisses  it. 

"  Always  my  friend — my  true,  good,  loyal  old  friend  ! 
Thank  God  !  some  one  remembers  me.  It  is  more  than 
I  deserve  though — more  than  I  ever  expected." 

"Oh,  my  own  love!  my  own  dear,  brave,  bright 
beautiful  boy  !  don't'ee  talk  like  that !  Don't'ee,  now— 
it  do  nigh  break  my  heart.  Oh,  Master  George  !  Master 
George!  I'm  fit  to  die  wi'  joy.  I  know'd  you'd  come 
back  to  see  the  mother  some  day — I  always  said  so. 
Thanks  and  praise  be  !  But  come  in,  come  in.  It's  your 
own  house,  and  I'm  keepin'  you  here." 

"  My  own  house,  Mrs.  Tinker  !"  he  says,  with  a  dreary 
laugh.  "  My  good  soul,  I  have  not  a  garret  in  the  world 
I  can  call  my  own." 

But  he  lets  her  lead  him  in,  and  shivers  as  he  passes 
out  of  the  bleak,  sleety  night. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  how  wet  you  are !  and  how  pale,  and 
thin,  and  fagged  like,  now  that  I  see  you  in  the  light ! 


LOST     FOR    A     WOMAN.  79 

My  dear,  my  dear,  my  own  Master  George  !  how  changed, 
you  arc  !" 

"  Changed  !"  he  says.  "  Good  Heavens,  yes  !  If  you 
knew  the  life  I  have  led But  we  cannot  stand  talk- 
ing here — some  of  the  servants  will  be  passing,  and  I 
must  not  be  seen.  Take  me  somewhere  where  we  can 
talk  undisturbed,  and  where  I  may  get  warm  ;  I  am 
chilled  to  the  bone." 

Her  eyes  are  running  over  again.  The  change  in 
him  !  Oh,  the  change  in  him  ! — so  worn,  so  jaded,  so 
hollow-eyed,  so  poorly-clad,  so  utterly  fallen  from  his 
high  estate  ! 

She  leads  the  way  to  her  little  sitting-room,  and  he 
sinks  wearily  into  the  easy-chair  she  places  for  him  be- 
fore the  fire,  and  places  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  the 
leaping,  cheery  light  dazzled  and  blinded  him. 

"  Sit  thee  there,  Master  George,  and  don't'ee  talk  for 
a  bit.  '  Rest  and  get  warm,  and  I'll  go  and  fetch  summat 
to  eat." 

He  is  well  disposed  to  obey  ;  he  is  worn  out  in  body 
and  mind.  He  has  been  recently  ill,  he  has  eaten  scarcely 
anything  all  day,  he  has  hardly  a  penny  in  his  pocket, 
and  "  Uie  world  is  all  before  him,  where  to  choose." 

He  sits,  and  half  sleeps,  so  utterly  weary  is  he,  so 
sweet  to  him  are  the  rest,  and  the  warmth  of  the  fire. 
But  he  wakes  up  as  Mrs.  Tinker  returns  laden  with 
hot  coffee,  chicken,  meats,  bread  and  wine.  His  eyes 
light  with  the  gladness  of  hard,  grinding  hunger. 

"Thanks,  my  dear  old  woman  !  you  have  not  forgot- 
ten my  tastes.  By  Jove !  I  am  glad  you  brought  me 
something,  for  I  am  uncommonly  sharp-set." 

She  watches  him  eating  and  drinking,  with  the  keen 
delight  women  feel  in  ministering  to  the  bodily  wants  of 
men  they  love.  He  pushes  the  things  away  at  last,  and 
laughs  at  her  rapt  look. 

"I  wonder  if  Ne'er-do-well  ever  had  such  a  loving 
old  heart  to  cling  to  him  before,"  he  says  :  "the  world  is 


8o  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN. 

a  better  place,  Mrs.  Tinker,  for  having  such  women  as 
you  in  it.  I  wonder  if  I  might  smoke  in  this  matronly 
bower  without  desecration  now  ?" 

It  is  an  anti-climax,  but  it  does  Mrs.  Tinker's  heart 
good.  Smoke  !  Yes,  from  now  until  sunrise  if  he  likes. 

"  Well,  not  quite  so  long  as  that.  By  sunrise  I  ex- 
pect that  I  and  the  Belle  O'Brien  will  be  well  on  our 

way  to ,  but  never  mind  where — if  you  don't  know 

you  can't  tell.  I've  a  berth  as  foremast  hand,  being  a 
friend — after  a  fashion — of  the  captain's,  and  am  going 
to  work  my  passage  out  to — never  mind  where  again, 
Mrs.  Tinker.  If  I  live  and  prosper,  and  redeem  the  past 
out  there,  I'll  come  back  and  see  you  one  day,  and  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it.  If  not — and  it  is  more  than  likely 
not — I  will  have  seen  you  to-night  at  least.  But  I'm  off 
in  an  hour  or  two,  and  that  is  why  I  am  here — to 
take  away  with  me  a  last  look  of  your  good,  plump, 
motherly  old  face — bless  it !  Because,  you  see,  in  the 
words  of  the  song,  '  it  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be 
forever.'  And  very  likely  it  will  be  forever,  for  I'm  an 
unlucky  beggar,  and  like  Mrs.  Guminidge,  'thinks  go 
contrary  with  me  !' " 

He  laughs  ;  it  is  almost  like  the  mellow  laugh  of  old, 
but  it  makes  faithful  Susan  Tinker's  heart  ache. 

"  Oh,  my  clear  !  my  dear !  You  a  sailor  ?  You  in  want 
of  anything,  and  him — that  there  young  hupstart " 

"  Ah !  I  know  about  that,"  George  says,  quickly,  "  I 
heard  down  yonder  in  the  town.  It  is  his  birthday,  and 
there  are  highjinks  in  consequence  up-stairs.  What's  he 
like — this  successor  of  mine?" 

"He's  black  and  stiff,  and  that  high-stomached,  and 
proud  of  himself  that  I  can't  abide  the  sight  of  him  ! 
He's  not  fit  to  black  your  shoes,  that  he  ain't,  Master 
George.  Oh !  my  dear,  it's  not  too  late  to  come  back 
and  do  well.  Let  me  go  up  and  tell  my  mistress " 

But  he  stops  her  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"No,  Tinker,  you  shall  tell  no  one.     I  have  not  re- 


LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN.  81 

turned  to  whine  and  beg.  Not  that  I  would  not  go  down 
on  my  knees,  mind  you,  to  crave  their  pardon  for  the 
heart-break  I  have  caused  them  if  that  were  all.  But  it 
would  not  be  all — it  would  be  misunderstood.  I  might 
be  repulsed,  and — and  I  know  myself — that  might  awake 
the  devil  within  me.  I  would  be  thought  to  have  re- 
turned for  the  money — a  comfortable  home — I  could  not 
stand  that.  I  wrote  again  and  again  that  first  year  to  ask 
their  forgiveness — I  never  asked,  nor  meant  to  ask  for 
anything  besides,  and  they  never  answered  me.  A  man 
can't  go  on  doing  that  sort  of  thing  forever.  Some  day 
— months  from  this — you  will  tell  them  if  you  like,  and 
if  you  think  they  would  care  to  hear.  Tell  my  mother  I 
ask  her  pardon  with  all  my  soul ;  tell  her  I  love  her  with 
all  my  heart.  Tell  her  I  would  give  my  life — ay,  twice 
over,  to  undo  the  past.  But  tell  her  nothing  to-night. 
I  was  homesick,  Mrs.  Tinker;  I  wanted  to  see  you — I 
really  think  I  wanted  to  see  you  most  of  all.  Think  of 
that — a  fellow  being  in  love  with  you,  and  you — fifty-five, 
isn't  it?" 

He  laughs  again,  but  the  dark  bright  eyes  that  look 
at  the  fire  see  it  dimly,  as  if  through  water.  In  the 
pause  comes  the  sound  of  singing  from  up-stairs — a 
man's  voice — a  tenor,  tolerably  strong  and  tuneful,  but 
Mrs.  Tinker  listens  with  a  look  of  much  distaste,  and 
makes  a  face,  as  though  she  were  tasting  something  very 
nasty  indeed. 

"It's  him  !"  she  says,  in  explanation,  and  George 
smiles  ;  he  knows  she  means  Vane  Valentine. 

"'Le  roi  est  mart — vive  le  roi,'  is  evidently  not  your 
motto,  you  foolish  old  person,"  he  remarks  ;  "don't  you 
know  a  live  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion  ?  Be  wise  in 
your  advancing  years,  my  dear  old  nurse,  and  cultivate 
Mr.  Vane  Valentine.  He  is  to  be  a  baronet,  and  a  mil- 
lionaire, and  a  very  great  personage  one  day,  let  me  tell 
you." 

He  rises,  puts   his  pipe  in  his  pocket,  and  stretches 


82  LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN. 

out  his  hand  for  his  hat.  She  rises,  too,  with  a  sort  of 
cry. 

"Not  going!  Not  like  this!  Oh,  Master  George, 
dear  Master  George,  not  like  this !" 

"  Like  this,  my  friend.  See  !  I  am  weak  as  water  al- 
ready— don't  unman  me  altogether — don't  make  it  harder 
for  me  than  you  can  help.  It  must  be.  I  have  seen  you, 
and  I  am  satisfied.  Tell  them  by  and  by " 

He  stops,  for  she  is  crying  as  if  her  very  heart  would 
break. 

"  Ah,  me !  ah,  me !"  she  sobs,  how  shall  I  bear  it  ? 
How  can  I  ever  let  him  go  ?  Master  George,  Master 
George  !  Oh,  my  boy,  that  I  have  rocked  in  these  arras 
many  and  many  a  time — that  has  gone  to  sleep  on  my 
breast,  that  I  love  like  my  own  flesh  and  blood  !  Oh,  my 
heart,  how  will  I  let  him  go  ?" 

She  cries  so  dreadfully  that  he  puts  down  his  hat  and 
takes  her  in  his  arms,  and  tries  to  soothe  her.  His  own 
eyes  are  wet  She  cries  as  if  indeed  her  old  heart  were 
breaking. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  says,  at  last,  almost  wildly.  "  My 
dear,  dear  nurse,  have  a  little  mercy  !  Stop  crying,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  I  can't  stand  this." 

There  is  such  desperate  trouble  in  his  tone,  in  his 
face,  that  it  pierces  through  all  her  sorrow,  and  checks 
its  flow  for  a  moment.  In  that  moment  he  snatches  up 
his  hat. 

"Good-by,  good-by  !"  he  exclaims.  "  God  bless  you, 
faithful,  loving  old  friend.  I'll  come  back  to  see  you  if 
I  never  come  to  see  any  one  else." 

And  then  he  is  gone.  There  comes  floating  down  the 
rtairs  the  last  melodious  words  of  Vane  Valentine's 
hunting  song,  as  the  door  opens. 

"  For  the  fences  run  strong  in  the  Leicestershire  vale, 
And  there's  bellows  to  mend,  and  a  lengthening  tail, 
With  a  '  Forward  !  Away  !'  in  the  morning." 

But  there  mingles  with  it  a  quick  step  running  down 


LOST    FOR    A     WOMAN.  83 

the  stairs,  and  the  opening'  and  shutting  of  a  street  door. 
And  then  she  is  alone,  and  outside  the  sleet  is  beating 
against  the  glass,  and  the  wind  is  shrieking  through  the 
black  streets,  and  up-stairs  there  is  the  sound  of  faint  ap- 
plause, and  a  soft  murmur  of  pleasant  voices.  And 
George  Valentine  has  been,  and  is  gone. 

The  dinner  party  goes  off  well,  and  so  does  the  new 
heir.  People  admire  his  repose  of  manner  and  modest 
good  breeding,  and  consider  him  a  credit  to  his  sister's 
training. 

Mrs.  Tinker  is  indisposed  next  day,  and  keeps  her 
bed.  Her  eyes  are  very  red,  her  face  very  pale  and 
troubled,  her  mistress  observes,  when  she  visits  her. 
Being  questioned  as  to  these  symptoms,  Mrs.  Tinker 
turns  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  her  tears  silently  flow 
again.  If  she  only  knew  ! 

The  storm  continues  all  night,  all  next  day  ;  there  are 
many  disasters  and  wrecks  along  the  coast  chronicled  in 
the  papers  for  days  after.  And  among  them  there  is  nar- 
rated the  total  wreck  of  the  bark  Belle  O'Brien^  and  the 
loss  of  every  soul  on  board. 

This  item  of  shipping  news  is  read  aloud  below  stairs 
by  the  butler,  and  that  magnate  is  electrified  by  a  shriek 
from  one  of  the  women,  who  drops  in  a  dead  faint.  It  is 
Mrs.  Tinker,  to  the  surprise  of  every  one  ;  and  Mrs. 
Tinker  is  laid  on  the  floor,  and  sprinkled  with  water,  and 
slapped  on  the  palms,  and  brought  to  with  infinite  diffi- 
culty. And  when  she  is  brought  to,  she  "goes  on  "  like 
a  mad  woman,  beating  the  air  with  her  hands,  screaming 
hysterical  screams,  calling  out  for  her  mistress,  and  mis- 
conducting herself  generally  in  a  way  perfectly  frenzied. 

Her  mistress  comes  ;  every  one  else  is  turned  out  of 
the  room,  and  then — Susan  Tinker  never  knows  how — 
the  terrible  truth  is  told.  George  Valentine  is  one  of 
the  "  hands  "  who  has  gone  down  to  his  death  in  the  ill- 
fated  Bell."  O'Brien. 

Blood  tells,  pride  tells,  training  tells.    Madam  listens, 


84  LOST     FOR    A     WOMAN. 

with  blanched  cheeks  and  wide,  horror-stricken  eyes,  but 
she  neither  faints  nor  screams.  She  is  deadly  still,  deadly 
cold ;  but  almost  the  calmness  of  death,  too,  is  in  her 
face.  She  makes  no  comment  whatever ;  she  listens  to 
the  end — to  the  narrative  of  the  visit  and  all  that  passed 
— and  rises  and  seeks  out  her  husband. 

He  comes  in  horror  to  the  old  servant's  bedside,  his 
hands  trembling,  his  mouth  twitching,  far  more  agitated, 
in  seeming,  than  his  wife,  and  listens  to  the  story  sobbed 
out  again  between  ever-flowing  tears. 

"  You — you  did  not  ask  him  anything  about — about 
her  /"  the  father  says,  tremulously. 

"  No  ;  I  forgot.  There  wasn't  time  to  ask  him  any- 
thing. And  I  was  so  took  up  with  him,"  Mrs.  Tinker 
sobs. 

She  understands  Mr.  Valentine  refers  to  the  wife. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  master,  you  are  not  angry  with  me,  are 
you  ?" 

"  You  should  have  spoken  sooner — that  night,"  he 
says,  still  tremulously  ;  "all — all  might  have  been  well." 
Then  he  breaks  down  for  a  moment,  and  lays  his  head 
on  the  table,  and  Susan  Tinker  is  silent  before  a  grief 
greater  and  more  sacred  than  her  own.  "  But  I  am  not 
angry,"  he  adds,  rising  slowly.  "You  did  as  he  told  you. 
I  am  not  angry  with  you,  Mrs.  Tinker,"  he  says,  with 
strange  pathos  and  gentleness  for  that  stern,  proud  man. 
"  George  loved  you  !" 

It  is  the  first  time  that  name  has  passed  his  lips  for 
years.  As  he  speaks  it  he  turns  and  hurries  out  of  the 
room. 

He  goes  to  the  little  sea-coast  village  where  the  bones 
of  the  luckless  bark  rest,  and  the  crew — such  of  them  as 
have  been  Vashed  ashore,  lie  buried.  One  or  two  of  the 
bodies  have  been  identified  and  claimed  ;  others  were 
cast  up  by  the  sea  with  every  trace  of  humanity  beaten 
out  by  the  ruthless  waves.  The  clothes  and  other  relics 
are  preserved.  Among  them  is  a  jacket,  and  on  the  lin- 


LOST     FOR    A     WOMAN.  85 

ing,  which  is  black,  there  is  marked  in  small,  distinct  red 
letters,  a  name,  "  G.  H.  Valentine."  The  body  on  which 
this  garment,  tightly  buttoned,  was  found,  was  that  of  a 
tall  young  man  with  dark  hair  and  a  mustache ;  a  fine- 
looking,  muscular  young  fellow,  so  far  as  could  be  dis- 
coveied,  after  some  days  in  the  water.  He  is  buried 
yonder.  The  father  goes  and  kneels  by  the  little  mound 
of  snow-covered  sod,  and  what  passes  in  his  heart  is 
known  only  to  Heaven  and  himself. 

Five  months  after  that,  Austin  Valentine,  the  merchant 
prince,  dies.  He  has  never  held  up  his  head  again  ;  the 
sight  of  his  heir  becomes  insupportable  to  him.  That 
young  gentleman  is  sent  on  his  travels,  and  the  funeral 
is  over  before  he  returns. 

For  Madam  Valentine — well,  she  goes  on  with  the 
burden  of  life  somehow.  It  is  an  old  story.  "  The  heart 
may  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on."  The  world  does  not 
see  much  difference.  Only  the  Toronto  home  is  broken 
up  forever  ;  life  there  all  at  once  grows  hateful,  and  she 
becomes  a  wanderer.  She  will  have  no  fixed  place  of 
abode,  a  singular  restlessness  possesses  her — she  resides 
here,  there,  everywhere,  as  the  fancy  seizes  her.  Vane 
Valentine  waits  dutifully  on  every  whim.  "  What  com- 
fort he  must  be  to  you  ;  such  a  good  young  man,"  every- 
body says,  and  she  agrees,  and  tries  to  think  it  is  so — but 
he  is  a  comfort  to  her.  She  has  a  cold  sort  of  liking  for 
him,  a  respect  for  his  judgment  and  good  sense,  but  love 
— Ah  !  well,  she  has  loved  once,  and  once  suffices.  And 
so  existence  goes  on  for  still  three  years  more.  Mrs. 
Tinker  accompanies  her  always  ;  she  clings  to  this  old 
servant,  she  is  a  link  that  binds  her  to  the  past — the  only 
one.  She  comes  with  Vane  Valentine  to  the  cottage  in 
the  suburbs  of  this  dull  little  New  England  town  of 
Clangville,  because  it  is  a  pleasant  place  for  a  few 
autumn  weeks,  and  one  place  is  much  the  same  as 
another. 

Life  goes  on — almost  stagnant  in  its  quiet ;  she  grows 


86          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

old  gracefully ;  she  is  a  woman  of  fine  presence  and 
commanding  mien  still,  her  health  is  unbroken,  only — 
she  has  almost  forgotten  to  smile. 

Her  face  is  set  like  a  flint  to  all  the  world  ;  she  is 
chill  and  hard,  self-repressed  and  self-centered,  a  wc.man 
sufficient  unto  herself. 

And  here — where  peace  and  a  sort  of  forgetfulness 
seem  to  have  found  her,  the  widow  of  her  dead  son  ap- 
pears, the  miserable,  low-born  cause  of  her  life's  woe  and 
loss,  and  destroys  it  all. 

Comes  with  her  fair  mocking  face,  her  fresh,  insolent 
young  beauty,  her  bold,  evil  blue  eyes,  her  coarse,  defiant 
taunts,  and  threatens  to  tear  bare  her  half-healed  heart, 
and  show  it  bleeding  to  all  the  gaping  world. 

And  this  is  the  danger  Vane  Valentine  has  gone  to- 
night to  avert,  this  is  the  wretched  story  of  passion  and 
pain,  and  loss,  and  death,  and  shame,  she  thinks  out,  as 
she  sits  with  clasped  hands  gazing  at  the  cold,  white 
October  moonlight — all  wrought  by  this  one  woman's 
hand! 


CHAPTER   IX. 
WHICH   RECORDS  A  TRAGEDY. 


EMIMA  ANN!"  says  Mile.  Mimi.    Sheislying 
in  her  customary  afternoon  lounging  atti- 
tude upon  the  parlor  sofa,  occupied  in  her 
usual  afternoon  fashion  in  smoking  ciga- 
rettes, and   teaching   her  little  girl  a  new  ballet   step, 
"Jemima  Ann,  are  you  happy  ?" 
"  Lor  !"  says  Jemima  Ann. 

"  Yes,  I  know — that  is  your  favorite  expletive.  You 
say  it  when  you  step  on  and  scrunch  a  black  beetle  ;  you 
would  say  it  if  the  whole  six-and-twenty  were  blown  up 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.         87 

in  their  boiler  shop,  foundry-shop  — whatever  it  is,  to- 
morrow. I  swear  myself  sometiues  when  things  go 
wrong,  but  not  in  such  mild  fashion.  '  Lor '  is  no  answer, 
Jemima  Ann,  are — you — happy!" 

"Well — railly  " — begins  Miss  Hopkins,  modestly,  but 
Mimi  waves  her  white  hand,  and  cuts  her  short. 

"  Oh,  if  it  requires  reflection,  say  no  more,  you're  not. 
Neither  am  I,  Jemima — I  never  was.  No,  never,"  says 
Mimi,  biting  her  cigarette  through  with  her  little  sharp, 
white  teeth,  "  not  even  when  I  was  first  married,  and  I 
suppose  most  girls  who  marry  for  love  are  happy  then — 
for  a  month  or  so,  at  least  !  Did  I  marry  for  love,  I 
wonder — did  I  ever  care  for  him,  or  any  one  else,  really 
— really,  in  my  whole  life  ?" 

Mimi  is  evidently  retrospective.  She  rolls  a  fresh 
cigarette  between  her  deft  fingers,  and  looks  with  somber 
blue  eyes  at  the  graceful  capers  of  Mademoiselle  Snow- 
ball. 

"  I  like  Petite,  there — she  amuses  me  ;  but  so  would 
the  gambols  of  a  little  white  kitten.  She  is  pretty,  and  I 
like  to  dress  her  prettily,  but  I  would  tie  ribbons  round 
the  kitten's  neck,  and  trick  her  out,  just  the  same.  Is 
that  love  ?  If  she  died  I  would  be  sorry — I  expect  her  to 
be  a  comfort  and  companion  to  me  by  and  by.  I  quarrel 
with  most  people — I  have  no  friends,  and  I  am  lonely 
sometimes,  Jemima  Ann.  But — is  that  love  ?  And  her 
father " 

The  darkest,  most  vindictive  look  Jemima  Ann  has 
ever  seen  there,  sweeps  like  a  cloud  over  the  blonde  face. 

"  I  hated  her  father,"  she  says  between  her  teeth.  "  I 
hale  him  still.'' 

"Do  tell  !"  exclaims  shocked  Jemima  Ann. 

Mimi  laughs — her  transitions  are  like  lightning,  her 
volatile  nature  flashes  to  and  fro,  as  a  comet.  Miss 
Hopkins'  round-eyed  simplicity  amuses  her  always. 

"Listen  here,  Jim,"  she  says,  "your  aunt  calls  you 
'  Jim  '  sometimes,  doesn't  she  ?  What  would  you  say  of 


88          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

• 

a  poor  girl,  a  grisette  of  New  York,  born  in  poverty,  bred 
in  poverty,  in  vice,  in  ignorance,  with  only  her  face  for 
her  fortune,  what  would  you  say  of  such  a  one  when  a 
gentleman,  young,  handsome  as  one  of  the  heroes  of 
your  novels — tall,  dark-eyed,  finely  educated,  and  the 
heir  of  millions,  falls  in  love  with  her  ;  runs  away  from 
home  and  friends  for  her  ;  marries  her.  What  would 
you  say  ?" 

"That  she  was  the  very  luckiest  and  happiest  creeter 
on  airth,"  responds,  promptly,  Jemima  Ann.  "  But  was 
the  love  all  on  his  side?  Didn't  she  love  him  too?" 

"  Ah !"  says  Mimi,  <l  that  is  what  I  have  never  been 
able  to  lind  out.  I — don't — know.  She  didn't  act  as  if 
she  did  ;  it  was  more  like  hate  sometimes,  but  she  never 
could  bear  him  to  look  at  any  one  else.  She  drove  him 
to  his  death,  anyway.  The  love-story  ended  in  a  tragedy. 
Snowball,  you  have  got  that  pas  all  wrong.  Look  here 
little  dunce !" 

She  rises  lazily,  draws  her  skirts  up  a  little  to  display 
two  trim  feet,  and  executes  the  step  to  which  Snowball 
aspires,  makes  her  little  daughter  repeat  the  performance 
until  she  has  it  quite  correctly.  Then  she  flings  herself 
again  on  the  lounge.  Jemima  Ann  looks  on  in  perplex- 
ity— this  erratically  acting  and  talking  Mimi  has  been  her 
puzzle  from  the  first — puzzles  her  more  than  ever  to- 
day ;  in  one  breath  talking  of  the  tragical  death  of  the 
young  husband,  who  left  all  for  her,  and  with  the  words 
still  on  her  lips,  absorbed  in  teaching  Snowball  a  ballet 
step  !  The  simple  soul  of  Jemima  Ann  is  upset. 

"No,"  says  Mimi,  going  back  to  the  starting  -joint, 
"no  one  is  happy.  Even  animals  are  wretched.  Look 
at  a  horse — beaten,  loaded,  worn  out — look  at  a  cow — 
what  melancholy  meditation  meets  you  in  her  big,  pa- 
thetic eyes.  A  pig  is  the  only  contented-looking  beast 
I  know  of ;  a  pig  wallowing  in  mud,  surrounded  by  ten 
or  so  dirty  little  piglings,  is  a  picture  of  perfect  earthly 
felicity  !  If,  in  the  transmigration  of  souls — if  that  is 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.         89 

the  correct  big  word — min,e  is  permitted  to  return  and 
have  its  choice  of  a  future  dwelling,  I  think  we  will  be 
i  fat  little  white  porker  and  be  happy  !  Oh !  here  is 
Lacy,  and  I  am  not  dressed.  Take  away  Snowball,  Je- 
mima, like  a  good  girl.  I'm  due  at  a  dinner  to-day — 
Mr.  Lacy  gives  it  at  the  hotel,  and  here  he  comes  after 
me." 

She  springs  to  her  feet  and  runs  up-stairs. 

"  Tell  him  to  wait,  Jim,"  she  calls  ;  "  I  will  be  ready  in 
half  an  hour." 

Miss  Hopkins  delivers  the  message,  and  bears  Snow- 
ball to  the  regions  below. 

Mr.  Lacy  takes  a  seat  at  the  parlor  window,  calling 
familiarly  to  Mile.  Trillon,  up-stairs  to  tittivate  and  be 
quick  about  it,  for  the  rest  are  waiting  and  the  banquet 
is  ordered  for  five,  sharp. 

It  is  late  when  Vane  Valentine  reaches  the  circus. 
He  has  dined  leisurely  and  well,  as  it  is  in  his  nature  to 
do  all  things,  and  the  brass  band  is  banging  away  inside 
the  monster  tent  when  he  reaches  it,  and  the  first  of  the 
performance  is  over.  Still  he  is  not  the  only  late  arrival 
— a  few  others  are  still  straggling  in,  and  one  man  leans 
with  his  back  against  a  dead  wall,  his  hands  in  his  coat 
pockets,  waiting  at  his  ease  for  his  turn.  Something 
familial  in  the  look  of  this  man,  even  in  the  dim  light, 
arrests  Vane  Valentine's  attention  ;  he  looks  again,  looks 
still  again,  comes  forward,  with  a  sudden  lifting  of  his 
dark  face,  and  lays  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder. 

"Farrar  !"  he  exclaims.  "My  dear  fellow,  is  it  you 
or  your  wraith  ?" 

The  man  looks  up,  regards  the  speaker  a  .TK.ment, 
after  a  cool  fashion,  and  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  How  are  you,  Valentine  ?  Yes,  it  is  I.  You  wouldn't 
have  thought  it,  would  you  ?  But  the  world  is  not  such 
a  big  place  as  we  are  apt  to  think  it,  and  Fayal,  though 
some  distance  off,  is  not  absolutely  out  of  the  universe." 


9o          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

"Well,  I'm  uncommonly  glad  to  see  you,  old  boy,': 
says  Vane  Valentine,  and  really  looks  it.  "  Have  you 
come  all  the  way  from  the  Azores  to  go  to  the  circus  ?" 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  should  say  yes  ?" 

"  Regret  to  find  you  falling  into  your  second  child- 
hood at  five-and-twenty,  but  no  end  glad  to  see  you  again, 
all  the  same." 

"  I  should  think,  after  a  very  few  weeks  of  this  place, 
you  might  be  no  end  glad  to  see  almost  any  one,"  says 
Mr.  Farrar.  "  Fayal  may  be  dull,  but  at  least  it  has 
beauty  to  recommend  it.  But  this  beast  of  a  town " 

"It  is  a  beastly  place,"  assents  Vane  Valentine,  "but 
I  am  not  staying  in  the  town  itself.  We  live  in  the 
suburbs,  my  aunt  and  I — not  a  bad  spot  in  the  month  of 
September.  We  go  to  Philadelphia  next  week.  Madam 
Valentine  has  a  house  there  that  she  likes  rather,  and 
where  she  stays  until  she  goes  south  for  the  winter." 

"  She  is  well,  I  trust  ?" 

"  She  is  always  well.  She  is  a  wonderful  old  lady  in 
that  way — no  headaches  or  hysterics,  or  feminine  non- 
sense of  any  kind  about  her.  But  are  you  really  going 
to  the  circus,  you  know?"  inquires  Mr.  Valentine, 
smiling. 

"  Most  undoubtedly.  Behold  the  open  sesame,"  show- 
ing his  ticket.  "  And  you — it  is  about  the  last  place 
of  all  places  I  should  expect  to  find  the  fastidious  Vane 
Valentine." 

Vane  Valentine  shrugs  his  shoulders,  but  looks  rather 
ashamed  of  himself,  too. 

"  I  don't  come  to  see  the  thing,  don't  you  know  ;  I 
come  on — business.  I  want  particularly  to  see  one  of 
the  performers." 

"  Ah  !"  remarks,  in  deep  bass,  Mr.  Farrar. 

"  Pshaw  !  my  dear  fellow,  nothing  of  the  sort.  You 
might  know  me  better.  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  one  of 
these  women  yet" 

"Austere  young  aristocrat,  I  ask  pardon  !     If  we  are 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.          91 

going  to  see  anything  of  it  at  all,  we  had  better  not 
linger  longer  here,  for  the  raree-show  is  half  over  by 
this  time." 

"  Where  are  you  stopping  ?"  young  Valentine  asks,  as 
they  turn  to  go  in. 

"They  put  me  up  at  the  Washington — not  a  bad  sort 
of  hostelry.  Have  I  ever  spoken  to  you  of  my  friend, 
Dr.  Macdonald,  of  Isle  Perdrix  ?  I  am  on  my  way  to 
give  him  a  week  or  two  of  my  delectable  society." 

"  Somewhere  in  Canada,  among  the  French,  isn't  it  ? 
Yes,  I  remember.  Stay  over  to-morrow,  though,  won't 
you,  and  come  and  dine  with  me  ?  I  haven't  seen  a  soul 
to  speak  to  for  three  weeks  !  A  civilized  face  is  a  god- 
send here  among  the  sooty  aborigines  of  Clangville." 

"You  are  a  supercilious  lot,  upon  my  word,  Valen- 
tine," observes  Mr.  Farrar.  "  You  always  were.  Here 
we  are  at  last,  in  the  thick  of  the  tumblers  and  merry-go- 
rounds,  i  feel  like  a  boy  again.  I  have  not  been  inside 
a  circus  tent  for  fifteen  years.  They  were  the  joy  of  my 
existence  then." 

They  take  their  seats,  and  become  for  the  space  of  five 
seconds  the  focus  of  several  hundred  pairs  of  examining 
eyes.  Madame  Olympe  is  cavorting  round  the  ring  on 
four  bare-backed  chargers  at  once,  "  hi-ing,"  leaping, 
jumping  through  lighted  hoops,  startling  the  nervous 
systems  of  everybody,  and  the  several  hundred  eyes  re- 
turn to  the  sawdust  circle.  The  two  new-comers  look 
sufficiently  unlike  the  generality  of  the  crowd  around 
them,  to  attract  considerable  attention,  if  it  could  be 
spared  from  the  performance. 

Vane  Valentine,  dressed  to  perfection,  with  just  a 
suspicion  of  dandyism,  very  erect,  very  stiff,  and  con- 
temptuous of  manner,  glancing,  with  a  sneer  he  takes  no 
trouble  to  conceal,  at  the  simple  souls  around  him,  all 
agape  at  the  amazing  doings  of  the  magnificent  Olympe. 
Mr.  Farrar,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  with  a  look  of  great 
latent  strength,  that  lends  a  grace  of  its  own  to  his  well- 


9a  WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

knit  figure,  a  silky  brown-black  beard  and  moustache, 
hair  close-cropped  and  still  darker,  straight  heavy  eye- 
brows, and  a  pair  of  brilliant  brown  eyes.  He  is  a  man 
of  commanding  presence,  looking  far  more  thoroughbred 
than  his  companion,  distinctly  a  handsome  man — a  man 
at  whom  most  women  look  twice,  and  look  with  interest. 
He  laughs,  and  strokes  his  brown  beard,  as  he  watches 
the  astonishing  evolutions  of  Olympe. 

"  Is  it  she?"  he  says  ;  "  if  you  want  to  take  lessons  in 
rough-riding  you  could  hardly  have  a  more  accomplished 
teacher.  A  handsome  animal  too." 

"  Which  ?"  asks  Vane  Valentine,  "  the  woman  or  the 
horse  ?" 

"  Both.  How  does  she  call  herself  ?  Ah,  Olympe, 
the  Daughter  of  the  Desert.  Which  desert  ? — this  is  vague. 
Whew — that  was  a  leap — what  superb  muscles  the  crea- 
ture must  have.  Now  she  has  gone.  What  have  we 
next?" 

"  Mile.  Mimi  on  the  tight-rope,"  reads  Vane  Valen- 
tine. "  Astonishing  feats  on  the  wire — sixty  feet  in  the 
air !  Oh,  nere  she  is  !" 

He  looks  up  with  vivid  interest,  and  levels  his  glass. 
Far  above,  a  shining  small  figure  is  seen,  all  white  gauze, 
spangles,  gilded  hair,  balancing  pole.  A  shout  of  ap- 
plause greets  her.  Mimi  has  become  a  favorite  with  the 
circus-going  public,  in  the  last  two  or  three  days.  Vane 
Valentine  looks  long  and  intently — his  glass  is  powerful, 
and  brings  out  every  feature  distinctly.  He  lowers  it  at 
last,  and  draws  a  deep  breath. 

"Take  a  look,"  he  says  to  his  companion,  "and  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  her." 

Mr.  Farrar  obeys.  He,  too,  looks  long  and  steadily 
at  the  fair  Mimi,  balancing  far  up  in  that  dizzy  line — 
going  through  a  performance  that  makes  more  than  one 
nervous  head  swim  to  look  at.  He  also  drops  the  glass 
after  that  prolonged  stare,  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  think  her  pretty?"  Valentine  asks. 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.          93 

"  There  can  be  no  two  opinions  about  that,  I  should 
think.  She  is  exceedingly  pretty." 

Vane  Valentine  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  Who  knows  ?  These  people  owe  so  much  to  paint 
and  powder,  and  padding  and  wigs,  and  so  on.  In  this 
case,  too,  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view.  I 
dare  say  nearer,  with  her  face  washed,  and  half  these 
blonde  tresses  on  her  dressing-table,  we  should  find  otlr 
fair  one  a  blowsy  beauty,  with  a  greasy  skin  and  a  pasty 
complexion.  She  does  her  tight-rope  business  well, 
though.  By  Jove,  it  looks  dangerous  !" 

"  It  is  dangerous,"  the  other  answers,  "and — I  may  be 
mistaken — but  there  is  something  the  matter.  She 
nearly  lost  her  balance  a  moment  ago.  Good  !  good  ! 
there  !  she  nearly  lost  it  again  !" 

The  words  have  scarcely  passed  his  lips  when  a 
hoarse,  terrible  cry  arises  simultaneously  from  a  hundred 
throats.  There  is  a  sudden  upheaval  of  the  whole  multi- 
tude to  their  feet.  Over  all,  piercing,  frightful,  never  to 
be  forgotten,  a  woman's  shriek  rings — then  a  silence,  a 
pause  so  awful  that  every  heart  stands  still.  Then — a 
ckull,  dreadful,  sickening  thud,  something  white  and  glit- 
tering has  whirled  like  a  leaf  through  the  air,  and  lies 
now,  crushed,  bleeding,  broken,  senseless — a  tumbled 
heap  of  gauze,  and  ribbons,  and  tinsel,  and  shining  hair, 
and  shattered  flesh  and  blood. 

And  now  there  rises  a  chorus  of  screams,  a  stampede 
of  feet,  confusion,  uproar,  chaos.  Above  it  sounds  the 
voice  of  the  manager,  imploring  them  to  be  orderly,  to 
be  silent,  to  disperse.  Mile.  Mimi  is  seriously  hurt.  Her 
only  chance  is  for  the  audience  to  go,  and  leave  her  to 
the  care  of  her  friends.  Hers,  in  any  case,  was  to  have 
been  the  close  of  the  performance. 

The  audience  are  sorry  and  horrified,  and  obey,  but 
slowly,  and  with  much  talk  and  confusion.  They  pour 
out  into  the  bright,  chilly  night,  and  that  crushed  and 
bleeding  heap  is  lifted  somehow,  and  laid  on  a  stretcher, 


94          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

and  the  company  crowd  around.  Some  one  has  already 
gone  for  a  doctor,  when  Vane  Valentine,  who,  with  Mr. 
Farrar,  has  already  pushed  his  way  into  their  midst, 
speaks : 

"This  gentleman,  although  not  a  practicing  physi- 
cian, has  studied  medicine,  and  is  skillful.  Farrar,  look 
at  the  poor  creature,  and  see  if  anything  can  be  done." 

Mr.  Farrar  is  already  bending  over  her,  and  Vane 
Valentine,  who  has  a  horror  of  the  sight  of  blood  and 
wounds,  turns  away,  feeling  quite  sick  and  giddy.  But 
it  is  his  stomach  that  is  tender,  not  his  heart.  In  this 
moment  his  first  thought  is,  "If  she  is  dead,  what  a  lot  of 
trouble,  and  what  a  pot  of  money  it  will  save,  to  be 
sure !" 

There  is  profound  silence  ;  even  Olympe  looks  pale 
and  panic-stricken  in  this  first  moment,  in  the  face  of 
this  direful  tragedy.  Mr.  Farrar  is  quite  pale  with  the 
pity  of  it,  when  he  looks  up  at  last.  A  moment  ago,  so 
fair,  so  full  of  life  and  youth  ;  now,  this  mangled,  dully 
moaning  mass.  For  /'/  moans  feebly  at  times,  and  the 
sound  thrills  through  every  heart. 

"She  is  insensible,  in  spite  of  that,"  he  says;  "she  is 
terribly,  frightfully  injured.  It  is  utterly  impossible  for 
her  to  recover.  With  all  these  compound  fractures,  there 
is  concussion  of  the  brain.  She  will  probably  never  re- 
cover consciousness,  even  for  a  moment.  She  will  die." 

He  pronounces  the  dread  fiat^  pale  and  grave.  He 
stands  with  folded  arms,  and  looks  down  at  the  motion- 
less form  on  the  stretcher.  Olympe — a  judge  of  a  fine 
man — glances  at  him,  even  in  this  tragic  moment,  with  an 
approving  eye.  Time  and  opportunity  favoring,  she 
would  like  to  cultivate  Monsieur  le  Medians  acquaintance, 
she  thinks. 

"  Can  she  be  moved  ?"  the  manager  asks.  "  Poor  lit- 
tle Mimi !  poor  little  soul !  I'm  sorry  for  this.  I've 
known  her  for  years,  and  in  spite  of  her  little  failings,  I 
always  liked  her.  Poor  little  soul !" 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.          95 

The  manager  is  a  personage  of  very  few  words.  He 
rarely  commits  himself  to  a  speech  as  long  as  this.  He 
looks  sorry  as  he  says  it. 

"  Poor  little  Mimi !"  he  repeats  ;  "poor  little  woman  ! 
joor  little  soul  !" 

"Where  does  she  live?"  Mr.  Farrar  asks.  "Yes,  she 
can  be  removed — she  feels  nothing  ;  and  it  had  better  be 
done  at  once.  I  will  go  with  you  until  the  doctor  comes, 
but  neither  of  us  will  be  of  any  use.  I  will  remain  if 
there  is  anything  that  can  be  done,"  he  says  to  the  man- 
ager, "as  long  as  you  like." 

"  Thank  you  !  I  shall  take  it  as  a  favor.  You  see,  I 
have  known  her  so  long ;  and,  poor  little  thing,  hers 
might  have  been  such  a  different  fate  if  she  had  chose. 
It  has  been  a  strange  life  and  death.  Poor,  poor  little 
Mimi  !" 

"  How  long  do  you  give  her  to  hold  out,  you  know  ?" 
Vane  Valentine  asks  his  friend,  in  a  subdued  tone,  as  he 
too  turns  to  follow. 

Something  in  his  voice,  a  latent  eagerness,  a  sort  of 
hope,  makes  Farrar  look  at  him  suddenly.  The  brown 
eyes  are  keen  and  quick  to  catch  and  read. 

"  She  will  hardly  live — hold  out,  as  you  call  it — until 
morning,"  he  answers,  coldly.  "  Why  ?" 

"  Nothing,  except  that  I  too  would  like  to  wait  for — 
the  end.  It  is  all  very  sudden  and  shocking." 

Mr.  Farrar  says  nothing.  The  sympathy  sounds  forced 
and  unmeant. 

Vane  Valentine  is  neither  sorry  nor  shocked  ;  he 
thinks,  indeed,  it  is  a  very  fit  and  natural  ending  for  such 
a  life,  altogether  to  have  been  expected.  And  what  an 
easy  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  day  !  No  fear  of 
exposure  or  blackmail  now. 

"Will  she  ever'spcak  again?"  he  asks,  thinking  his 
own  thoughts,  as  they  slowly  follow  the  sad  cortege  that 
bears  poor  Mimi  home. 

"  Have  I  not  said  she  would  not  ?     She  will  never  re- 


96          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

cover  consciousness.     She  will  lie  moaning  like  that  for 
a  little,  and  then  life  will  go  out." 

There  is  silence.  It  has  chanced  to  Mr.  Farrar  to  see 
a  good  deal  of  death  and  the  darker  sides  of  life,  but 
habit  has  not  hardened  him.  There  is  that  in  his  face 
which  tells  Vane  Valentine  he  is  in  no  mood  to  answer 
idle  questions.  So  he  discreetly  holds  his  tongue,  and 
follows  through  the  starry  darkness  to  Mrs.  Hopkins' 
home. 

Jemima  Ann  snd  Aunt  Samantha  are  waiting  up  as 
usual,  sewing  in  silence,  a  kerosene  lamp  between  them. 

Snowball  has  not  been  taken  to  the  circus  this  even- 
ing, but  as  she  has  a  profound  disbelief,  in  her  small 
way,  of  the  early-to-bed  system,  she  is  still  up,  singing 
gleefully,  and  playing  with  a  couple  of  kittens  in  front 
of  the  stove.  Her  song,  sung  at  the  full  pitch  of  her 
powerful  little  lungs,  is  her  favorite  ballad  of  the  "  Ten 
Little  Injun  Boys." 

The  door-bell  is  rung  by  the  messenger,  who  runs  on 
ahead  ;  the  direful  news  is  broken,  and  in  a  moment  all 
is  confusion. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  is  acid  of  temper,  but  pitiful  of  heart. 
A  great  remorse  and  compassion  seizes  her.  She  has 
spent  the  evening  in  wordy  abuse  of  her  boarder — her 
smoking,  her  drinking,  her  flirting,  her  generally  shame- 
ful goings  on  ;  and  now — a  bleeding  and  mangled  crea- 
ture is  borne  in  to  die  in  her  house. 

"  I  wouldn't  a  said  a  word  if  I'd  a  thought,"  she  says, 
crying,  to  Jemima  Ann.  "  I  kinder  feel  as  if  she'd  oughter 
haunt  me  for  all  the  things  I've  up  and  said  of  her. 
Poor  little  creetur  !  she  was  only  young  and  flighty,  and 
knowed  no  better,  likely,  when  all  is  said  and  done." 

Jemima  is  crying  too,  very  sincere  tears.  She  has 
learned  to  like,  has  always  liked,  the  light,  insouciant, 
devil-may-care  little  trapezist.  But  then  Jemima  Ann 
would  have  cried  for  any  one  in  pain  or  trouble  as  freely 
as  she  weeps  over  her  heroines  in  weekly  installments. 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.          97 

She  prepares  the  bed,  and  sees  Mimi  laid  upon  it,  still 
faintly  moaning,  and  assists  in  removing  as  much  as  can 
be  removed  of  the  flimsy,  tinseled  drapery.  The  beauti- 
ful fair  hair,  all  clotted  and  sticky  with  blood,  is  gathered 
up  in  a  great  knot.  The  face  seems  the  only  part  of  her 
uninjured — it  is  drawn  into  a  strange,  dreadful  expres- 
sion  of  fear  and  pain — the  look  that  froze  upon  it  in  the 
instant  of  her  fall.  The  features  are  not  marred,  but  the 
face  is  ghastly — the  blue  eyes  seem  half  open,  a  little 
stream  of  blood  and  foam  trickles  from  the  lips.  Jemima 
Ann  wipes  it,  and  her  own  tears,  away,  as  she  stands 
looking  down. 

Down  in  the  parlor  is  Mr.  Lacy,  like  a  man  dis- 
traught, lie  has  been  in  love  with  Mimi,  off  and  on, 
since  he  saw  her  first ;  he  has  followed  her  about  from 
place  to  place  like  her  shadow  ;  he  has  offered  her  mar- 
riage again  and  again — and  he  is  rich.  That  she  has  not 
married  him  has  surprised  everybody  ;  but  Mile.  Trillon 
has  always  been  erratic,  has  liked  her  freedom  and  her 
wandering  life,  has  persistently  laughed  at  him,  and 
taken  his  presents  with  two  greedy  little  hands,  and 
eaten  his  dinners,  and  drank  his  wines,  and  smoked  his 
cigarettes,  and  driven  behind  his  high-steppers,  and  said 
No. 

"I've  had  enough  of  marriage,  Lacy,"  she  has  said,  in 
her  reckless  fashion ;  "  it's  no  end  of  a  humbug.  I 
wouldn't  marry  the  Prince  of  Wales  if  he  came  over  and 
asked  me." 

"  Which  it  would  be  bigamy  if  you  did,"  says  Mr. 
Lacy  ;  "  but  you  might  marry  me,  Mimi — f've  not  got  a 
Princess  Alexandra  at  home.  You  could  leave  off  the 
flying  trapeze,  and  have  a  good  time  as  Mrs.  Augustus 
Lacy." 

"  I  have  a  better  time  as  Mile.  Mimi  Trillon.  Thanks, 
old  fellow,  very  much,  but  not  any!"  laughs  Mimi. 

And  she  has  adhered  to  it.  No  later  than  this  very 
day,  after  dinner,  a-flush  with  champagne  and  turkey, 
5 


98          WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

Mr,  Lacy  has  renewed  his  honorable  proposals,  and  for 
the  twenty-fifth  time  been  refused.  Mimi,  too,  is  elate 
with  the  fizzing  beverage,  which  she  is  but  too  fond  of, 
and  it  is  this  thought  that  adds  the  sting  of  poignant 
self-reproach  to  Mr.  Lacy's  grief.  She  had  taken  too 
much  wiae,  she  was  in  no  condition  to  mount  that  fatal 
wire  when  she  left  his  hotel,  and  he  should  have  told  the 
manager  so.  But  how  could  he  tell  ? — and  she  would 

never  have  forgiven  him  if  he  had,  and  now He 

lays  his  head  on  the  table,  and  cries,  in  the  deepest 
depths  of  misery,  and  remorse,  and  despair.  So  Mr. 
Farrar  finds  him  later,  and  stands  looking  at  him,  with 
that  grave,  thoughtful  face  of  his,  in  silent  wonder. 

"  I  was  so  fond  of  her,"  the  poor  young  man  says, 
wiping  his  eyes ;  "  I  was  awfully  fond  of  her  always.  I 
would  have  married  her  if  she'd  have  had  me.  But  she 
wouldn't.  And  now  to  think  of  her  lying  up  there,  all 
crushed  and  disfigured.  It's  too  horrid.  And  it's  dused 
hard  on  me,  by  George  !  Ain't  there  no  hope,  doctor  ? 
You  are  the  doctor,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  I  am  not  a  doctor,"  Mr.  Farrar  answers,  "  but  the 
doctor  is  with  her.  No — there  is  no  hope." 

He  does  not  look  contemptuous  by  these  womanish 
tears,  and  this  foolish  little  speech.  A  sort  of  compas- 
sion is  in  the  glance  that  rests  so  gravely  on  poor  love- 
stricken,  grief-stricken  Mr.  Lacy. 

"  How — how  long  will  she " 

Mr.  Lacy  applies  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  and 
walks  away  abruptly  to  one  of  the  windows. 

"She  may  last  the  night  out.  She  will  not  know  you 
or  any  one — she  is  past  all  that.  She  will  never  speak 
again." 

He  pauses. 

A  little  child  comes  in,  a  fairy  in  a  blue  dress  the 
color  of  its  eyes,  with  fluffy,  flaxen  hair,  falling  to  its 
waist,  and  a  lovely  rosebud  face. 

"  Seben  'ittle  Injuns  nebba  heard  ob  hebben,"  sings 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.          99 

the  fairy,   looking  about   her   with  wide  open,  fearless 
eyes. 

She  espies  Mr.  Lacy,  and  peers  up  at  him  curiously. 

"  What  you  cryin'  for,  Lacy  ?"  she  asks.  "  Want  your 
supper  ?" 

Mr.  Lacy  is  too  far  gone  to  reply. 

"Want  go  to  bed  ?"  persists  inquisitive  Snowball,  the 
two  sole  wants  she  is  ever  conscious  of  uppermost  in  her 
mind. 

"  Oh  !  Snowball,  Snowball !"  says  poor  Mr.  Lacy. 
"  Little  Snowball,  if  you  only  knew  !" 

"  Where  Mirny  Ann  ?"  Snowball  demands,  unmoved 
by  this  apostrophe.  "'Noball  wants  her  Mirny  Ann. 
Want  go  to  bed." 

"  It  is  her  child,"  Mr.  Lacy  explains  to  the  silent  Far- 
rar.  "  She  was  a  widow,  you  know.  I  haven't  an  idea 
what  will  become  of  this  little  mite  now.  And  she  is 
very  like  her.  It's  dused  hard,  by  George  !" 

He  is  overcome  again. 

Mr.  Farrar  holds  out  his  hand  to  the  child. 

"  Come  here,  little  Snowball,"  he  says. 

She  looks  at  him  after  her  fashion  for  a  moment,  then 
still  quite  fearlessly  goes  over,  climbs  upon  his  knee,  and 
kisses  his  bearded  lips. 

"You  is  a  pritty  man,"  she  says.  "  'NobaTl  likes 
pritty  men.  DoesjF<?#  know  where  is  my  Mirny  Ann  ?" 

"She  will  be  here  presently.     She  is  busy  up-stairs." 

He  puts  the  flaxen  hair  back  from  the  baby  face,  ami 
gazes  long  and  earnestly. 

"Yes,  you  are  like  her,"  he  says,  "you  are  very  like 
her,  my  poor  little  Snowball." 

Snowball  is  sleepy,  and  says  as  much  ;  she  cuddles 
closer,  lays  her  fair  baby  head  confidingly  against  his 
breast  closes  the  blue  eyes,  and  instantly  drops  asleep. 
He  sits  and  holds  her,  lifting  lightly  the  long  pretty  hair, 
until  Jemima,  coming  down  in  search  of  her,  bears  her 
off  to  her  cot. 


ioo        WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

It  is  a  night  never  to  be  forgotten  in  the  Hotel  Hop- 
kins. No  one  goes  to  bed.  Even  the  six-and-twenty 
hands  stray  afield  until  abnormal  hours,  and  meander 
in  and  out,  unrebuked. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  retires,  it  is  true,  to  freshen  herself  for 
the  labors  of  the  dawning  new  day,  which  promises  to  be 
one  of  the  busiest  of  her  busy  life.  Jemima  Ann  retires 
not.  She  is  up-stairs,  and  down-stairs,  and  on  her  feet  the 
weary  night  through.  Mr.  Lacy  cannot  tear  himself 
away.  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  sends  a  message  to  the  cot- 
tage, and  he,  too,  lingers  to  see  how  the  poor  creature 
fares,  and  wins  golden  opinions  from  hero-worshiping 
Miss  Hopkins.  So  much  goodness  of  heart,  so  much 
condescension  in  so  great  a  personage,  she  wouldn't  a 
thought  it,  railly.  She  falls  partly  in  love  with  him  in- 
deed, in  the  brief  intervals  she  has  for  that  soft  emotion, 
during  her  rapid  skirmishing  up  and  down  stairs — would 
do  so  wholly  but  that  her  admiration  is  about  equally 
divided  between  him  and  his  friend  Mr.  Farrar. 

This  latter  gentleman  remains  without  offering  any 
particular  reasons,  but  in  a  general  way,  in  case  he  can 
be  of  any  further  assistance. 

For  Mimi,  she  lies  prone,  not  opening  her  eyes,  not 
stirring,  only  still  moaning  feebly  at  intervals.  Up  in 
her  cot,  in  Jemima's  room,  little  Snowball  sleeps,  her 
pretty  cheeks  flushed,  her  pretty  hair  tossed,  and  dreams 
not  that  the  fair  frail  young  mother  is  drifting  out  further 
and  further  from  this  world,  with  each  of  those  dark,  sad, 
early  hours. 

The  night-light  burns  low,  the  sick-room  is  very  still, 
the  street  outside  is  dead  quiet ;  Jemima  Ann  sits  on  one 
side  of  the  bed,  her  numberless  errands  over  for  the 
present,  dozing  in  the  stillness,  spent  with  fatigue ;  Mr. 
Farrar  paces  the  corridor  without,  coming  to  the  bed  at 
intervals  to  feel  the  flickering  pulse,  and  see  if  life  yet 
lingers.  Mr.  Lacy  slumbers  in  a  chair  in  the  parlor,  and 
Mr.  Valentine  has  stretched  his  slender  limbs  on  the 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.        101 

sofa,  where  poor  Mimi  was  wont  in  after-dinner  mood  to 
recline,  and  smoke,  and  chaff  Jemima.  The  belated  six- 
and-twenty  have  clambered  up  to  their  cots  at  last ;  only 
the  black  beetles,  the  mice,  and  Mr.  Paul  Farrar  are 
thoroughly  awake  in  the  whole  crowded  household. 

Four  strikes  with  a  metallic  clang  from  the  big 
wooden  clock  in  the  hall,  and  is  taken  up  by  a  time- 
piece of  feebler  tone,  far  down  in  the  underground 
kitchen.  He  pauses  in  his  restless  walk,  enters  the  sick- 
room, glances  at  the  quiet  figure  on  the  bed,  walks  to 
one  of  the  windows,  draws  the  curtain  and  looks  out. 
The  moon  has  set,  the  morning  is  very  dark,  a  wild  wind 
shudders  down  the  deserted  street  with  a  whistling  sound, 
inexpressibly  dreary. 

He  remembers  suddenly  it  is  the  first  of  November, 
the  eve  of  All  Souls'  Day  ;  the  moaning  of  the  sweeping 
blast  sounds  to  him  like  the  wordless  cry  of  some  of 
these  disembodied  souls,  wandering  up  and  down  for- 
lornly, the  places  that  knew  them  once.  Another  soul 
will  go  to  join  that  "silent  majority"  before  the  new 
day  dawns.  The  thought  makes  him  drop  the  curtain, 
and  sends  him  back  to  the  bedside. 

The  change  has  come.  A  gray  shadow,  not  there  a 
moment  since,  lies  on  the  white  face,  a  clammy  dew  wets 
it,  the  fluttering  of  the  heart  can  hardly  be  detected  now, 
as  he  bends  his  ear  to  listen. 

Jemima  Ann,  waking  from  some  uncomfortable  dream, 
starts  up. 

He  lifts  one  warning  hand,  and  still  bends  his  ear 
downward,  his  fingers  on  the  flickering  pulse. 

"Oh!  what  is  it?"  Jemima  says,  in  a  terrified  whis- 
per ;  "  is  she  worse  ?" 

"  Hush — she  is  dying.  No  !"  he  cries  out.  "  She  is 
dead !" 

The  shock  of  sudden  emotion  is  in  his  tone.  He 
drops  the  wrist  and  stands  quite  white,  looking  down 
upon  the  marble  face.  A  shudder  has  passed  through 


io2         WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

the  shattered  limbs,  through  the  crushed,  frail,  pretty 
little  body ;  then,  with  a  faint,  fluttering  sigh,  she  is 
gone. 

"  Dead  !"  says  Jemima  Ann. 

She  drops  on  her  knees  with  a  sobbing  cry,  and  looks 
piteously  at  the  rigid  face. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear !"  she  sobs,  under  her 
breath  ;  "  dead  !  and  only  this  afternoon,  only  this  very 
afternoon,  she  lay  on  the  sofa  down-stairs  talkin'  to  me, 
and  laughin',  so  full  of  life,  and  health,  and  strength,  and 
everything  ;  so  pretty,  so  pretty,  so  young  !  Oh,  dear  ! 
oh,  dear  !  and  now  she  is  dead — and  such  a  death  !  She 
was  talkin'  of  years  ago,  and  of  her  husband — poor,  poor 
thing!"  says  Jemima  Ann,  rocking  to  and  fro,  through 
her  raining  tears,  "tellin'  me.  how  handsome  he  was,  and 
how  he  loved  her,  and  how  he  run  away  with  her  from 
his  home,  and  riches,  and  all.  And  now,  and  now,  she 
is  there — and  dead — and  never,  never,  never,  will  I  hear 
her  pretty  voice  again  !" 

Mr.  Farrar  lifts  his  eyes  from  the  dead  woman,  and 
looks  across  at  the  homely,  tear-wet,  honest  countenance 
of  Mrs.  Hopkins'  niece,  and  thinks  that  beauty  is  not  the 
only  thing  that  makes  a  woman's  face  lovely. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,"  he  says.  "  You  are  sorry  for 
this  poor  creature.  You  do  well.  Yours  will  be  the 
only  tears  shed  over  her — poor  unfortunate  little  soul !" 

"  Did  you  know  her,  sir  ?"  asks  Jemima. 

"  I  know  of  her.  Hers  has  been  a  pathetic  life  and 
death — the  saddest  that  can  be  conceived.  Poor  pretty 
little  Mimi !  And  she  talked  to  you  of  her  early  life — 
and  her  husband  ?  What  of  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  dead — drounded — so  she  said.  But  I  guess 
he  treated  her  bad — at  least  I  think  it  was  that,  I  ain't 
sure.  Mr.  Lacy  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  she  wouldn't. 
Ah  !  poor  little  dear.  She'd  had  a  dose  already,  I  reckon. 
What's  to  be  done  next,  sir?" 

There  is  so  much  to  be  done  next,  it  seems,  that  Je- 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.        103 

mi  ma  Ann  is  forced  to  call  up  her  aunt.  Monsieurs 
Lacy  and  Valentine,  aroused  from  their  matutinal  nap, 
are  informed,  and  start  up  to  hear  the  details. 

"  Gone,  is  she  ?"  says  Mr.  Lacy,  the  first  sharp  edge 
of  his  affliction  a  trifle  blunted  by  slumber.  "It's — it's 
dused  hard  on  me,  by  George  !  I'll  never  be  so  fond  of 
any  one  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Did  she  speak  at  all  ?"  inquires  Valentine,  with  in- 
terest. 

"  No,  she  has  not  spoken." 

Mr.  Farrar  turns  abruptly  away  as  he  answers,  but 
looks  over  his  shoulder  to  speak  again  as  he  goes. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  linger  longer,"  he 
says,  roughly,  to  the  heir  of  many  Valentines.  "  She  is 
dead.  There  is  nothing  you  can  do." 

"  Are  you  sure — nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing.  You  had  better  go.  I  suppose  they  will 
lay  her  out  in  this  room.  She  will  be  buried,  I  infer,  from 
this  house." 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  is  not  used  to  being  thus  sum- 
marily dismissed,  but  he  wants  to  go,  and  does  not  resent 
it.  But  why  Mr.  Paul  Farrar  should  speak  and  act  as 
one  having  authority  is  not  so  clear,  except  that  his  mas- 
terful character  is  rather  apt  to  assert  itself  wherever  he 
goes. 

"  And  you,"  he  says  ;  "  I  must  see  you  again,  Farrar 
you  know,  before  you  leave." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  for  a  day  or  two,  I  shall  wait  until 
after  the  funeral.  I  am  in  no  particular  hurry." 

"  At  the  Washington  you  put  up  ?  Very  well,  I  will 
go  now,  and  look  in  on  you  later.  You  ought  to  turn 
in  for  an  hour  or  two — you  look  quite  fagged  with  your 
night's  watch.  Good-morning." 

Through  the  bleak  chill  darkness  of  the  dawning 
day,  Vane  Valentine  hurries  home,  full  of  his  news.  It 
is  a  very  bleak  and  nipping  morning,  it  tweaks  Mr.  Val- 
entine's thin  aquiline  nose  rosy  red,  and  powders  his 


104        WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

weak  young  mustache  with  white  rime.  The  blast  he 
faces  seems  to  cut  him  in  two,  a  sleety  rain  begins  to  pelt 
frequently,  and  he  has  no  umbrella.  He  cannot  bul 
think  that  it  is  rather  hard  he  should  have  to  undergo  all 
this,  for  a  trapeze  performer,  ana  the  consummate  foolery 
of  his  cousin  George  seven  long  years  ago.  But  he  has 
slept  well,  and  is  a  good  pedestrian,  and  gets  over  the 
ground  with  rapid  strides,  not  willing  to  admit  even  to 
himself  how  thoroughly  well  satisfied  he  is  with  the  way 
in  which  fate  has  cut  for  him  his  Gordian  knot.  It  has 
all  been  very  shocking  and  tragical,  and  of  course  it  is 
all  very  sad,  poor  creature,  but  then — but  then,  on  the 
whole,  perhaps  it  is  as  well,  and  it  simplifies  matters  ex- 
ceedingly. Here  is  the  child,  of  course,  but  the  child 
will  be  easily  disposed  of.  With  Mimi  has  died  probably 
all  trace  of  that  one  blot  on  the  spotless  Valentine  shield. 
Yes,  on  the  whole  it  is  as  well. 

He  lies  down  for  an  hour  when  he  gets  home  ;  then 
rises,  has  his  bath,  his  morning  coffee  and  chop,  and  then 
sends  word  to  his  aunt  that  he  will  like  to  see  her  at  her 
earliest  convenience.  Her  earliest  convenience  is  close 
upon  noon,  for  she  is  not  an  early  riser. 

He  finds  her  in  the  sitting-room  of  last  evening, 
seated  in  front  of  the  fire,  wrapped  in  a  fluffy  white 
shawl,  and  with  the  remains  of  a  breakfast  of  chocolate 
and  dry  toast  at  her  side. 

She  glances  indifferently  up  at  him,  murmurs  a  slight 
greeting,  and  returns  to  the  fire. 

"  Good-morning,  my  dear  aunt !"  Mr.  Vane  Valentine 
says,  with  unusual  briskness  of  manner. 

He  looks  altogether  brighter  and  crispier  than  is  his 
high-bred  wont. 

"  I  trust  you  slept  well.  I  hope  the — aw — unpleasant 
little  rencontre  of  yesterday,  did  not  disturb  you  at  all  ?" 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me,"  she  responds, 
abruptly.  "  Have  you  seen  that  woman  ?" 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.        105 

"1  have  seen  her.  That  woman  will  never  trouble 
you  or  me  any  more." 

She  looks  up  at  him  again,  quickly.  Something  in 
his  look  and  tone  tell  her  a  surprise  is  coming. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  sharply  and  imperiously  ; 
"  speak  out !" 

"She  is  dead  !" 

There  is  a  pause.  Even  Madam  Valentine,  cold,  im- 
penetrable, hard,  is  dumb  for  a  moment.  Dead  !  and 
only  yesterday  so  full  of  strong,  young,  insolent  life  ! 
She  catches  her  breath,  and  looks  at  him  with  eyes  that 
dilate. 

"  Dead  !"  she  repeats,  incredulously. 

"  Dead  ;  and  after  a  very  sudden  and  dreadful  man- 
ner ;  and  yet,  after  a  manner  that  might  easily  have  been 
expected." 

And  then  he  begins,  and  in  his  slow,  formal  way,  but 
with  a  quickened  interest  he  cannot  wholly  suppress, 
tells  the  story  of  the  tragedy  at  the  circus. 

"And  so  it  ends,"  he  concludes;  "and  with  it  all 
trouble  for  us  as  well." 

And  so  it  ends  !  Ay,  as  troubles  of  life  and  the  glory 
thereof  shall  one  day  end,  even  for  you,  Mr.  Vane  Val- 
entine— for  us  all,  O  my  brothers — in  the  solemn  wonder 
of  the  winding-sheet. 

In  the  warmth  and  glow  of  the  fire  he  sees  his  aunt 
shiver,  and  draw  her  white  fleecy  shawl  close. 

And  so  it  ends — in  another  tragedy  !  George  lying 
beneath  the  bleak,  sandy  hillocks,  in  his  wind-swept, 
sea-side  grave — his  wife  lying  with  life  mangled  and 
beaten  out  of  her,  about  to  be  laid  by  strangers,  far  from 
him.  in  death  as  in  life.  So  it  ends,  the  pretty  love  idyl, 
as  so  many  other  love  idyls  of  a  summer  day  have 
ended — in  ruin,  and  disaster,  and  death. 

"  It  is  very  sad — it  is  terrible,"  she  says,  a  sudden 
huskiness  in  her  voice — all  the  womanhood  in  her  astir. 
"  Poor  creature — she  had  a  beautiful  face." 
5* 


io6        WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

There  is  pity,  very  real,  very  womanly,  in  her  tune. 

"  And  George  loved  her,"  she  thioks.  "  Oh  !  my  son  ! 
my  son  !" 

"  Yes,  it  is  sad,"  breaks  in  the  hard  metallic  tones  of 
Mr.  Vane  Valentine;  "but  not  surprising.  She  will  be 
buried  from  the  house  where  she  was  boarding  —  a 
wretched  place  filled  with  grimy  working  men.  My 
friend  Farrar  was  with  her  at  the  last." 

She  looks  up  once  more.  It  is  so  very  unusual  to 
hear  the  young  man  apply  the  term  friend  to  any  human 
being,  but  a  faint,  angry,  incredulous  smile  crosses  her 
face. 

"  Who  is  your  friend  Farrar  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no  one  you  know.  Man  I  met  in  Fayal  last 
year — manager  of  an  immense  place  there,  very  good 
sort  of  fellow,  a  Bohemian  rather,  but  a  thorough  gentle- 
man. Stopping  here  for  a  couple  of  days  on  his  way  to 
Canada.  Capital  company,  Farrar — no  end  a  fine  fellow, 
but  not  distinguished  in  any  way." 

"  Except  by  the  notice  of  Vane  Valentine.  And  the 
child,"  after  a  pause,  "  what  of  it?" 

"Oh — aw — the  child.  Exactly.  What  I  was  about 
to  ask.  But  need  we  trouble  ?"  hesitatingly.  "  No  one 
knows  anything — aw — at  least,  I  infer  not." 

Her  eyes  blaze  out  on  him  for  a  rdoment,  a  flash  of 
black  lightning. 

"  She  is  my  son's  child — my  grandchild.  Do  you  wish 
her  sent  to  the  workhouse,  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  ?" 

"  My  dear  aunt " 

The  flash  is  but  momentary.  She  sinks  back  wearily 
in  her  chair,  and  draws  her  shawl  still  closer  around 
her. 

"  It  is  a  very  cold  morning,  I  think — I  cannot  get 
rnrm.  Throw  on  another  log,  Vane.  Something  must 
Oe  done  about  the  child — she  must  be  provided  for." 

Vane  Valentine  turns  pale  under  his  swarthy  ski  a 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.        107 

He  bends  over  the  fire  and  arranges  it  with  some  precip- 
itation. 

"  What  do  you  wish  ?"  he  asks,  and  in  his  voice  there 
is  ever  so  slight  a  touch  of  sullenness. 

"Nothing  that  can  affect  you — do  not  fear  it,"  she 
retorts,  scornfully.  "  I  have  no  desire  that  the  world 
should  know  that  this  child  of  an  unfortunate  tight-rope 
dancer,  is  anything  to  me — has  any  claim  upon  the  name 
of  Valentine.  At  the  same  time  she  must  be  provided 
for.  I  do  not  ask  how,  or  where,  but  you  must  see  that 
she  is  suitably  cared  for,  and  educated,  and  wants  for 
nothing.  Have  you  tact  enough  to  manage  this,  without 
exciting  suspicion  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  Mr.  Valentine  responds,  rather  stiffly. 
"  It  seems  a  simple  matter  enough.  You  are  a  rich  lady  ; 
as  an  act  of  pure  benevolence  you  compassionate  the  for- 
lorn condition — a\v — of  this  little  child,  and  offer  to  pro- 
vide for  her  in  that — aw — state  of  life  in  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  place  her.  No  one  else  has  any 
claim  that  I  hear  of.  I  will  go  and  see  about  it  at  once." 

"  Whom  will  you  see  ?" 

Mr.  Valentine  strokes  his  youthful  mustache,  and 
looks  thoughtful. 

"  The  manager,  I  infer  ;  it  doesn't  seem  quite  clear  to 
whom  the  little  one  belongs  now.  I  can  find  out,  how- 
ever. Farrar  will  help  me.  He  is  a  wonderfully  shrewd 
fellow  and  that." 

"  Very  well,  go." 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  goes,  and  tries  his  hand  at  diplo- 
macy. 

Mr.  Farrar  looks  a  little  surprised  when  his  young 
friend's  mission  is  made  known  to  him,  but  is  ready  with 
any  assistance  that  may  be  needed. 

They  see  the  manager,  and  find  that  that  gentleman 
has  no  claim  on  the  little  Trillon,  nor,  so  far  as  he  knows, 
has  any  one  else. 

"  The  little  one   is  totally  unprovided  for,"  he  says, 


io8        WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY. 

"I  know  that.  If  nothing  better  offered  I  would  keep 
her  myself  for  her  poor  mother's  sake,  and  get  one  of 
our  women  to  take  charge  of  her.  But  this  is  better. 
Ours  is  but  a  vagabond  life  for  a  child.  It  is  very  good 
ol  your  aunt,  sir.  She's  a  pretty  little  thing,  this  Snow- 
ball, and  will  grow  up  a  charming  girl.  Is  it  Madam 
Valentine's  intention  to  adopt  her,  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  Mr.  Valentine  ?" 

"  If  my  aunt  takes  her  she  will  be  suitably  provided 
for,"  says,  in  his  stiff  way,  Mr.  Vane  Valentine. 

"  No  doubt,  sir.  Well,  I  see  no  reason  why  your  aunt 
shouldn't.  Little  un's  father  is  dead  ;  her  mother  had  no 
relatives  that  I  ever  heard  of ;  she  is  as  much  alone  in 
the  world,  poor  little  thing,  as  any  waif  and  stray  can 
well  be.  Still  she  should  never  have  wanted.  But  this 
is  better.  Best  leave  her  where  she  is  until  after  the  fu- 
neral, the  girl  at  that  boarding-house  is  good  to  her,  and 
then  take  her  away." 

"  When  is  the  funeral  ?" 

"  To-morrow.  No  time  for  delay.  We  are  off  Mon- 
day morning.  I  look  after  the  burying  myself  ;  all  ex- 
penses, and  so  on.  She  got  her  death  in  my  service. 
Hope  you  will  attend  the  funeral,  gentlemen,  both." 

They  promise,  and  go,  both  very  thoughtful  and  rather 
silent. 

Mr.  Farrar  is  the  first  to  speak. 

"  This  is  very  good  of  your  aunt,"  he  says  ;  "  it  speaks 
well  for  her  kindness  and  gentleness  of  heart." 

"  Well,"  Vane  Valentine  replies,  dryly,  "  kindness 
and  gentleness,  in  a  general  way,  are  not  Madam  Valen- 
tine's chief  characteristics,  but  as  you  say,  this  is  good  of 
her — the  more  so  as  she  is  not  fond  of  children — or  poo- 
dles, or  cats,  or  birds,  or  things  of  that  kind.  She  is 
what  is  called  strong-minded.  The  little  one  has  fallen 
on  her  feet,  though,  all  the  same.  Best  thing  that  could 
have  happened  to  her ;  that  trapeze  woman  was  not  fit 
to  bring  up  a  child." 


WHICH    RECORDS    A     TRAGEDY.        109 

"Don't  agree  with  you,"  says  Mr.  Farrar,  shortly. 
"  It  is  never  best  for  a  child  to  lose  its  mother,  unless  she 
is  a  monster.  There  are  exceptional  cases,  I  grant  you, 
but  I  don't  call  this  one.  I  hope  the  poor  baby  will  be 
happy,  whatever  comes." 

"  Come  home  and  dine  with  me,"  says  Vane  Valen- 
tine, who  is  in  good  spirits.  He  does  not  much  fear  the 
child,  and  a  large  sum  of  money  has  been  saved.  "  You 
will  not  see  my  aunt,  very  likely,  but  I  shall  be  dusedly 
glad  of  your  company — and  that.  After  the  first  flush  of 
partridge  shooting,  it's  confoundedly  slow  down  here,  let 
me  tell  you." 

"  So  I  should  infer.  But  you  must  excuse  me  to-day, 
and  to-morrow  you  must  dine  with  me  instead,  at  the 
hotel." 

"  But  why  ?  You  don't  pretend  to  say  you  have  such 
a  thing  as  an  engagement  in  Clangville,"  incredulously. 

"No.  Still  you  will  be  good  enough  to  excuse  me. 
You  will  think  it  queer,  I  suppose,  and  squeamish,  but 
the  death-bed  scene  of  this  morning  has  upset  me.  It 
would  be  unfair  to  you  to  inflict  myself  upon  you.  So 
good-day,  my  dear  boy — here  is  Mrs.  Hopkins'.  I  shall 
drop  in  for  a  moment.  Will  you  come?" 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  says  young  Valentine,  with  a 
glance  of  strong  repulsion.  "  It  upsets  me  to  look  at 
dead  people,  and — that  sort  of  thing.  Until  to-morrow, 
then,  au  revoir." 

The  two  men  part,  and  unconscious  little  Snowball's 
fate  is  thus  summarily  settled,  and  Vane  Valentine  goes 
home  through  the  melancholy  autumn  afternoon  to  tell 
his  aunt. 


no  SNOWBALL    DISPOSED    OF. 

CHAPTER   X. 
IN  WHICH  SNOWBALL  IS  DISPOSED  OF. 


HERE  is  a  funeral  next  day  from  the  Hotel 
Hopkins,  such  a  funeral  as  the  quiet  little 
town  of  Clangville  has  rarely  turned  out  to 
see.  The  Six-and-Twenty  attend  to  a  man  ; 
the  circus  people  are  all  there  ;  there,  too,  are  Mr.  Farrar 
and  Mr.  Vane  Valentine. 

It  is  a  gusty  November  day — the  stripped  brown  trees 
rattle  in  the  bleak  blast,  an  overnight  fall  of  snow  lies 
on  the  ground,  and  whitens  the  black  gulf  down  which 
they  lower  the  coffin.  It  looks  a  desolate  resting  place, 
cold,  wet,  forlorn — Vane  Valentine  turns  away  with  a 
shudder — death,  graves,  all  things  mortuary  are  horrible 
to  him. 

Perhaps  they  remind  him  too  forcibly  that  his  turn 
too  must  come;  that  all  the  wealth  of  all  the  Valentines 
will  not  be  able  to  avert  it  one  hour.  Mr.  Farrar  stands 
grave  and  pale — an  impressive  figure  in  the  scene  ;  stand- 
ing with  folded  arms — dark  and  tall,  looking  down  at  the 
wet  sods,  rattling  rapidly  on  the  coffin  lid.  Poor  little 
Mimi !  Poor  little  frail,  reckless  butterfly!  What  a 
hollow  sound  the  frozen  clay  has  as  it  tumbles  heavily 
down  on  the  shining  plate.  What  a  tragic  ending  of  a 
shallow,  selfish — perhaps  sinful  life  ! 

It  is  over. 

As  the  dusk  of  the  short  November  afternoon  shuts 
down,  the  two  young  men — friends,  as  Vane  Valentine 
terms  it,  though,  perhaps,  it  is  hardly  the  correct  term — 
find  themselves  back  in  Mrs.  Hopkins'  parlor,  with  that 
severe  lady,  still  moist  and  tearful  after  the  funeral,  and 
Jemima  Ann,  with  eyes  quite  red  and  swollen  from 
much  sympathetic  weeping.  Little  Snowball  is  present, 


SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF.  in 

too,  and  it  is  little  Snowball,  and  her  future  they  are 
there  to  discuss. 

The  child  has  on  a  black  frock  and  black  shoes — 
things  she  has  never  worn  before,  and  she  eyes  both  with 
much  disapprobation. 

"Narsy,  narsy,"  she  remarks,  with  some  asperity. 
"  Narsy  brack  dress;  narsy  brack  shoes.  'Noball  not 
like  'em.  Take  'em  off,  Mirny  Ann." 

"No,  deary,"  says  Jemima  Ann,  wiping  her  red  eyes. 
"Snowball  must  wear  the  poor  little  black  dress.  It  is 
for  mamma,  Snowball  knows." 

"  W.iere  my  mamma  gone  ?     When  her  turn  back  ?" 

This  inquiry  causes  Jemima's  tears  to  flow  afresh. 
Snowball  eyes  them  with  considerable  dfsgust. 

"What  you  cwyin  for?  What  you  always  cwyin  for! 
'Noball  tired  you  cwyin.  Want  see  'Noball  dance?" 

Forthwith  Snowball  flirts  out  her  somber  skirts  and 
cuts  an  infantile  pigeon  wing — that  last  ballet  step  poor 
Mimi  taught  he*  bantling.  If  anything  can  comfort  Je- 
mima Ann,  and  stem  the  torrent  of  her  tears,  Snowball  is 
convinced  this  must. 

"Look  at  that  child,"  says  Vane  Valentine,  much 
amused.  "Blood  tells,  doesn't  it  ?  Do  what  you  please 
with  her,  that  fairy  changeling  will  grow  up  like  her 
mother  before  her — a  thorough  Bohemian." 

Mr.  Farrar  is  looking,  and  thoughtfully  enough,  at 
Snowball's  performance.  She  dances  wonderfully  well 
for  such  a  baby,  every  motion  is  instinct  with  lithe,  fairy- 
likft,  inborn  grace.  The  cloud  of  pale  flaxen  hair  floats 
over  her  shoulders  like  a  banner,  the  black  dress  brings 
out  the  pearly  tints  of  the  milk-white  skin,  the  sweet 
baby  face  is  like  a  star  set  in  jet. 

"  She  is  a  lovely  little  creature,"  Mr.  Farrar  says. 
"She  bids  fair  to  become  a  beautiful  woman." 

"Ten  to  one  she  grows  up  blowsy  or  freckled,"  re- 
plies Vane  Valentine,  in  a  bold  cheap  voice  ;  "these  very 
blonde  girls  often  do.  But  yes — she  is  pretty  at  present. 


ii2  SNOWBALL    DISPOSED    OF. 

Let  us  hope  judicious  training  may  eradicate  somewhat 
the  wild  vagrant  strain  that  flows  in  her  veins,  and  turn 
her  out  a  civilized  young  woman." 

Mr.  Farrar  looks  at  him — a  look  half  amused,  half 
sardonic.  "  You  abominable  young  prig  !"  is  his  thought. 
"  Let  us  hope  so,"  he  says,  aloud,  dryly.  "  To  whom  do 
you  propose  confiding  that  herculean  task  ?  Does  Ma- 
dam Valentine  intend  taking  her  in  hand  herself?" 

"  My  aunt  ?  My  dear  fellow,  you  never  saw  my  aunt, 
did  you?  She  would  as  soon  take  in  hand  the  training 
of  a  young  gorilla.  I  told*you  she  detests  pets — poodles 
and  little  girls  included.  No  ;  whatever  is  done  with 
the  waif,  it  will  not  be  that." 

"And  yet,  r  should  have  thought,  after  her  offer  to 
provide  for  her — adopt  her,  after  a  fashion — she  would 
like,  at  least,  to  see  her.  We  mostly  are  interested  in 
that  for  which  we  provide.  But  perhaps  I  have  misun- 
derstood. It  is  your  intention  to  take  her  home  with  you 
to-night  ?" 

"My  good  Farrar,"  retorts  Vane  Valentine,  with  a 
very  marked  touch  of  impatience,  "no!  My  aunt  has 
expressed  no  wish,  none  whatever,,  to  see  this  little  girl. 
How  could  it  be  possible  for  her — her — to  be  interested 
in  the  child  of  a  strolling  acrobat — a  vagrant  by  profes- 
sion ?" 

"Mile.  Mimi  is  dead,  Mr.  Vane  Valentine,"  says  Mr. 
Farrar,  with  a  sudden  dark  flash  leaping  angrily  frcm 
his  eyes.  "  Your  patrician  feelings  are  rather  carrying 
you  away  !" 

"  Beg  pardon.  I  speak  warmly — the  idea  is  so  pre- 
posterous. It  was  bad  form  all  the  same." 

Mr.  Valentine  turns  away,  at  his  stiffest,  but  decidedly 
discomposed.  He  speaks  warmly,  because,  although  it 
is  true  in  the  letter,  that  Madam  Valentine  has  expressed 
no  distinct  desire  to  see  Snowball  Trillon — to  have 
George's  diughter  brought  home — he  is  perfectly  con- 
scious that  she  does  desire  it,  that  she  desires  it  strongl  yt 


SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF.  113 

that  it  is  only  her  pride  that  prevents  her  putting  the 
desire  in  words.  And  Vane  Valentine  is  horribly  afraid 
of  any  such  consummation.  Who  knows  what  may  fol- 
low ?  This  small  girl — as  George's  daughter,  and  owned 
as  such — has  a  claim  on  the  Valentine  millions  far,  and 
away,  better  than  his  own.  And  she  is  so  perilously 
pretty — so  winning — so  charming — with  all  her  infantile 
sweetness  and  grace,  that — oh  !  that  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion— quite  out  of  the  question  to  let  Madam  Valentine 
set  eyes  on  her  at  all.  She  is  not  in  the  least  like  the 
family,  that  is  something,  the  Valentines  are  all  dark  and 
dour,  as  the  Scotch  say — this  child  is  fair  as  a  lily. 

"  It  is  the  dickens  own  puzzle  to  know  what  to  do 
with  her,"  he  says,  gnawing  the  end  of  his  callow  mus- 
tache, "she  cannot  stay  in  here,  I  suppose,  and  she  can't 
come  to  the  cottage,  that  is  clear.  She  might  go  to  a 
boarding-school,  or  a  nunnery,  or — or  that,"  helplessly. 
"  What  would  you  do,  Farrar  ?  You're  a  man  of  resour- 
ces." 

"  It's  rather  like  having  a  white  elephant  on  your 
hands,  isn't  it  ?  Poor  little  elephant — that  a  man  could 
take  up  between  his  finger  and  thumb — to  be  such  a  dead 
weight,  such  an  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  any  one's  shoul- 
ders !  Are  you  really  serious  in  that  question,  Valen- 
tine ?  I  know  what  you  could  do,  but  will  you  do  it  ?  It 
would  be  a  capital  thing  for  the  child  too." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  speak  out.  I  will  do  anything — 
the  little  thing's  good,  of  course,  being  paramount." 

"  Of  course,"  dryly.  "  Well,  you  might  give  her  t3 
me." 

"  What  ?" 

"Not  to  adopt — not  to  bring  back  to  Fayal — only  to 
take  off  your  hands  for  the  present.  I  will  make  a  hand- 
some sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  friendship,  my  boy,  put 
your  small  white  elephant  in  my  overcoat  pocket,  and 
take  her  '  over  the  hills  and  far  away.'  " 

Vane  Valentine  stands  and  stares  at  him,  half  in  an- 


ii4  SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF. 

ger  at  his  ill-timed  jesting — half  in  doubt  whether  it  be 
jesting." 

Farrar  is  a  queer  fellow,  full  of  whims  and  oddities, 
but,  also,  as  he  has  said,  full  of  resources. 

"  Don't  stand  there  looking  as  if  you  thought  I  had 
gone  idiotic!"  exclaims  Farrar,  impatiently.  "Have  I 
not  said  I  don't  want  the  little  one  for  myself  ?  Look 
here,  Valentine,  I  am  going  to  my  friends,  the  Macdon- 
alds.  Dr.  Macdonald  lives  on  an  island  in  Bay  Chalette, 
if  you  ever  heard  of  such  a  place.  Isle  Perdrix  is  the 
name.  He  is  an  old  Scotchman,  his  wife  is  a  young 
French  Canadian  lady,  and  the  sweetest  woman  that  ever 
drew  breath.  That  is  saying  a  good  deal,  isn't  it  ? 

"They  have  two  sons,  little  chaps  of  six  and  nine. 
There  is  no  girl,  and  the  desire  of  Madam  Macdonald's 
heart  is  a  little  girl. 

"  She  will  take  this  one,  and  bring  her  up  in  the  very 
choicest  French  fashion  ;  if  there  is  any  possibility  of 
changing  and  improving  that  Bohemian's  nature,  you  so 
deeply  deplore,  she  is  the  lady  to  do  it. 

"  As  they  are  by  no  means  wealthy,  you  will  make 
compensation,  of  course.  The  flourishing  township  of 
St.  Gildas  is  over  the  river  from  the  island,  and  there  is 
an  excellent  convent  school,  when  she  attains  the  age  for 
it.  I  start  to-morrow  morning ;  if  you  think  well  of 
this,  Petite  shall  be  my  traveling  companion.  There  is 
my  offer." 

"  My  dear  fellow  !"  cries  Mr.  Vane  Valentine — "  my 
dear  Farrar !" 

He  is  not  generally  effusive,  it  is  not  "  form  ;"  but  he 
grasps  his  friend's  hand  now,  or  tries  to  do  so — for  Mr. 
Farrar  stands  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  is  slow 
to  take  them  out 

"  I  accept  with  delight ;  take  her,  by  all  means  ;  noth- 
ing could  be  better.  You  say  you  will  start  to-morrow. 
Sorry  to  lose  you,  of  course.  These  good  women  will 
see  that  the  child  is  ready.  The  question  of  ample,  of 


SNOWFALL    DISPOSED    OF.  115 

liberal  compensation,  we  will  arrange  later.     Nothing  in 
the  world  could  be  better  than  what  you  propose." 

"  Madam  Valentine  will  be  satisfied  ?" 

"  Perfectly  satisfied.  She  will  amply  provide  for  the 
child." 

"  Had  you  not  better  put  it  to  her?  as  it  is  she  who  is 
virtually  Snowball's  guardian  now,  should  you  not  ?" 

"  My  dear  Farrar,  I  can  answer  for  her.  It  is  not 
necessary  at  all.  I  have  full  power  to  act  for  her  in  this 
matter.  She  does  not  want  to  see  the  little  one,  or  be 
annoyed  with  questions  about  her." 

"  It  would  annoy  her,  would  it  ?  That  makes  a  dif- 
ference, of  course.  Come  here,  little  white  elephant — 
such  a  poor  little  helpless  .elephant !  and  tell  me  if  you 
will  leave  your  Minny  Ann,  and  come  with  me?" 

He  lifts  the  fairy  to  his  knee,  with  infinite  tender- 
ness, and  puts  back  with  gentle  fingers  the  falling,  flaxen 
hair. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  little  Snowball  ?  I  wan( 
to  take  you  to  the  kindest  lady  in  the  world — a  pretty 
new  mamma,  who  will  love  little  Snowball  with  all  her 
good  heart." 

The  child  puts  up  her  two  snow-flake  hands  and 
strokes  the  cheeks  of  her  big  friend. 

"  'Noball  like  you,"  she  says.  "  You  is  a  pritty,  pritty 
man.  'Noball  will  give  you  a  kiss." 

Which  she  does,  an  emphatic  little  smack  right  on  the 
bearded  lips. 

"  Flattering,  upon  my  word,"  says  Vane  Valentine. 
'  Don't  you  like  me,  too,  Snowball  ?" 

"  No,"  says  Snowball,  curling  her  mite  of  a  nose. 
"  You  is  not  a  pritty  genpyman.  You  is  very  narsy." 

"  By  Jove !"  says  Mr.  Valentine,  and  stands  discom- 
fited. 

Mr.  Farrar  laughs. 

"  And  you  will  come  with  me,  Snowball  ?" 


n6  SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF. 

"Yes,"  nods  Snowball.  "  'Noball  turn  wiz  you.  May 
my  Mirny  Ann  turn,  too?" 

"Well — no — not  unless  you  wish  it  very  much,  Miss 
Trillon.  And  your  Mirny  Ann,  I  take  it,  cannot  be 
spared." 

"  You  will  want  some  one,"  suggests  Valentine. 
"  You  cannot  travel  with  that  child  alone,  Farrar  ;  think 
of  the  dressing  and  undressing,  the  feeding  and  sleeping, 
and  all  that.  You  couldn't  manage  it.  You  must  have 
a  woman." 

"  Not  if  I  know  it.  There  are  always  ladies  travel- 
ing— nice  matronly  ladies,  ready  to  interest  themselves  in 
helpless  manhood  and  childhood.  They  will  attend  to 
Mademoiselle  Snowball's  infantine  wants  and  wardrobe. 
St.  Gildas  is  only  two  days  off.  I  am  willing  to  risk  it. 
No  woman,  Valentine,  my  boy,  an'  thou  lovest  me." 

"  Wretched  misogynist,"  laughs  Mr.  Valentine. 
"  Some  one  must  have  used  you  shamefully  in  days  gone 
by,  Farrar.  I  wonder  why — you  are  a  tall  and  proper 
fellow  enough.  You  must  have  been  jilted  in  cold  blood. 
Well,  as  you  like  it,  only  I  would  rather  it  were  you  trav- 
eling two  days  and  nights  with  a  girl-baby  in  charge 
than  myself." 

Thus  it  is  settled,  and  life  opens  on  a  new  page  for 
little  Snowball.  The  circus,  with  its  lights  and  its  leaps, 
its  riding,  its  dancing,  its  danger,  and  its  wanderings,  its 
flavor  of  vagabondism,  is  to  be  left  behind  forever,  and 
seclusion,  and  respectability,  and  training  in  the  way  she 
should  go  a  la  Franfaise,  begins  for  the  motherless  waif, 
afloat  like  a  lost  straw  on  life's  great  tide. 

All  is  speedily  settled.  Mr.  Farrar  is  eminently  a 
man  of  promptitude  and  dispatch.  Vane  Valentine  is 
only  too  anxious  to  get  it  all  over  and  have  the  child  out 
of  the  town.  His  aunt  will  shut  up  the  cottage,  and  de- 
part in  a  day  or  two.  Money  matters  are  arranged,  and 
are  liberal  as  young  Valentine  has  promised.  He  shakes 
hands  with  his  friend  late  that  evening,  full  of  self -con- 


SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OK  117 

gratulation  that  a  knotty  point  has  been  so  well  and 
easily  gotten  over. 

•'If  she  had  seen  the  young  one,"  he  -says  to  himself, 
thinking  of  his  aunt,  "  no  one  knows  what  might  have 
happened.  Shut  out  of  the  world  on  this  far-away  island, 
she  will  speedily  forget,  I  trust,  all  about  her.  It  shall 
be  the  business  of  my  life  to  compel  her  to  forget.  Until 
the  fortune  is  actually  mine,  I  am  daily  in  danger  of  los- 
ing it,  unless  she  forgets  her  son's  daughter." 

Early  the  next  morning  the  first  train  bears  away 
among  its  passengers  Mr.  Paul  Farrar  and  Miss  Snow- 
ball Trillon.  Jemima  Ann  weeps  copiously  at  the  part- 
ing. A  glimpse  of  romance  has  come  to  brighten  the 
dull  drab  of  her  existence,  and  it  goes  with  the  going  of 
Snowball. 

"  Good-by,  good-by,"  she  sobs.  "  Don't,  oh  !  don't 
forget  poor  Mimi  Ann,  little  Snowball  !" 

"What  you  cwyin*  for  now?"  demands  Snowball, 
touching  a  tear  with  one  minute  finger,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  much  distaste.  "  'Noball  don't  like  cwyin'.  You 
is  always  cwyin'.  What  you  want  for  cvvy  some  more  ?" 

Snowball  cries  not.  Her  small  black  cloak  is  fastened, 
her  little  black  bonnet  tied  under  one  delicious  dimple, 
she  is  kissed,  and  departs  in  high  glee,  and  even  the 
memory  of  good  Jemima  Ann  waxes  pale  and  dim  before 
the  first  hour  has  passed. 

Mr.  Farrar  has  been  right.  All  the  way,  ladies  take 
a  profound  interest  in  pretty  Snowball.  Her  deep  mourn- 
ing, her  exquisite  face,  her  feathery,  floating  hair,  her 
blue,  fearless  eyes,  her  enchanting  baby  smile,  her  piquant 
little  remarks,  captivate  all  whom  she  meets. 

"  Isn't  she  sweet  ?" 

"  Oh,  what  a  pet !" 

Mr.  Farrar  hears  the  changes  rung  on  these  two  femi- 
nine remarks  the  whole  way.  Snowball  fraternizes  with 
every  one — she  does  not  know  what  bashfulness  means  ; 
she  flits  about  like  a  bird  the  whole  day  long.  Perhaps, 


n8  SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF. 

too,  some  of  these  good  ladies  are  a  trifle  interested  in 
the  tall,  silent,  bearded,  handsome  gentleman,  who  has 
her  in  charge,  and  who  is  not  her  father,  brother,  uncle, 
anything  to  her,  so  far  as  they  can  find  out  fro.ti  the 
small  demoiselle  herself,  whose  name  she  does  not  even 
know.  She  comes  back  to  him  once  from  her  pere- 
grniations,  replete  with  cake  and  questions,  perches 
herself  on  his  knee,  gives  one  bronzed  cheek  a  prelimi- 
nary peck  with  her  rosy  lips,  and  puts  this  leading 
question  : 

"  Is  you  my  papa  ?" 

"  No,  Snowball,  I  don't  think  I  am." 

"  Is  you  my  untie  ?" 

"Nor  your  uncle." 

"Is  you  my  broder?" 

"  Not  even  you  brother." 

"  What  is  you,  den?    Tause  de  lady  she  ast  'Noball." 

"  The  lady  had  better  not  ask  too  many  questions.  A 
thirst  for  knowledge,  you  may  inform  her,  has  been  the 
bane  of  her  sex.  And  Snowball  must  not  distend  her- 
self like  a  small  anaconda  with  confectionery.  The  lady 
means  to  be  kind,  but  perhaps  Snowball  has  heard  of 
people  who  were  killed  with  kindness  ?" 

To  which  Snowball's  reply  is  that  she  is  sleepy.  And 
then  the  flaxen  head  cuddles  comfortably  over  the  region 
of  Mr.  Farrar's  heart,  and  the  blue  eyes  close,  and  the 
dewy  lips  part,  and  Snowball  is  safely  in  the  land  of 
dreams. 

The  close  of  the  second  day  brings  them  to  St.  Gildas. 
Cold  weather  awaits  them,  in  this  Canadian  seaport. 
The  snow  lies  deep,  winds  blow  keenly.  Snowball  shiv- 
ers under  her  wraps  in  Mr.  Farrar's  arms.  They  spend 
the  night  at  a  hotel,  and  after  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, cross  the  St.  Gildas  river  to  Isle  Perdrix.  There 
an  amazed  and  joyful  welcome  awaits  them.  Snowball's 
reception  is  all  Mr.  Farrar  has  predicted,  both  from  tho 
elderly  Scotch  doctor  and  the  youthful  French  wife. 


SNOWBALL    DISPOSED     OF.  119 

They  accept  the  charge  with  delight,  the  two  boys  of  the 
household  alone  eying  the  intruder  with  dubious  eyes,  as 
it  is  in  the  nature  of  boys  under  nine  to  regard  small 
girls.  But  nature  is  sometimes  outgrown. 

Mr.  Farrar  remains  ten  days — ten  days  of  transport 
to  the  two  Macdonald  lads,  who  worship  him,  or  there- 
abouts, ten  days  of  gladness  to  their  parents,  ten  days  of 
much  caressing  and  infantile  love-making  on  the  part  of 
Snowball,  ten  happy,  peaceful  days.  Then  he  goes  back 
to  Fayal,  out  there  in  the  Azores,  and  to  the  monotonous 
life  of  the  manager  of  a  large  estate,  in  that  dullest  of 
fair  tropical  islands.  And  Snowball  remain*,  and  life 
on  its  new  page,  a  breezy  and  charming  and  he*  <,hf»»I 
life  on  the  sea-girt  isle,  begins. 


no  TSLE    PERDRIX. 


PART  II. 

ZV*  Carlos.—"  All  things  that  live  have  some  means  of  defense  " 

Lucas. — "  Ay,  all — save  only  lovely  helpless  woman." 

Don  Carlos. — "  Nay,  woman  has  her  tongue  armed  to  the  teeth  '' 


CHAPTER   XI. 

ISLE     PERDRIX. 


AR  away  from  grimy  New  England  mamifac« 
turing  towns,  from  coal  smoke,  and  roaring 
furnaces,  and  brisk  Yankee  trade  and  bustle, 
from  circuses  and  flying  trapeze,  there  rests, 
rock-bound,  and  bare,  and  bleak,  a  green  dot  in  a  blue 
waste  of  waters — Isle  Perdrix.  Lonely  and  barren,  it 
rears  its  craggy  headland,  crowned  with  stunted  spruce 
and  dwarf-cedars,  and  runs  out  its  sandy  spits  and 
tongues,  like  an  ugly,  sprawling  spider,  into  the  chilly 
waters  of  Bay  Chalette.  Through  the  brief  Canadian 
summer,  through  the  long  snow-bound  Canadian  win- 
ter, with  the  fierce  August  suns  beating  and  blistering  it, 
with  dank  sea-fogs  mapping  it,  with  whirling  snow- 
storms shrouding  it,  Isle  Perdrix  rests  placid,  unchanged, 
almost  unchangeable,  the  high  tides  of  Bay  Chalette 
threatening  sometimes  to  rise  in  their  might  and  sweep 
it  away,  altogether,  into  the  stormy  Atlantic  beyond. 

Long  ago,  when  all  this  Canadian  land  was  French, 
and  the  beautiful  language  the  only  one  spoken,  it  had 
been  christened  Isle  Perdrix.  Later,  with  Irish,  and 
English,  and  Scotch  immigration,  to  confound  all  names, 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  121 

it  became  Dree  Island ;  otherwise  it  is  unaltered,  since 
fifty,  sixty,  more  years  ago.  Its  headland  light  burns  as 
of  yore,  a  beacon  in  dark  and  dangerous  Bay  Chalette — 
its  resident  physician  is  still  resident,  as  when  in  that 
far-off  time  it  was  a  quarantine  station,  and  men  and 
women  died  in  the  long  sheds,  erected  in  the  sands,  of 
"ship  fever,"  faster  than  hands  could  bury  them.  It  is 
an  island  undermined  with  graves,  haunted  by  ghostly 
memories.  The  world  moves,  but  it  moves  languidly 
about  Dree  Island.  It  is  a  quarantine  station  still,  but 
its  hospitals  have  stood  empty  for  the  past  decade  of 
years  ;  emigrant  ships  come  rarely  now  to  dull  St.  Gil- 
das,  and  Dr.  Macdonald  finds  his  office  pretty  well  a 
sinecure.  He  lives  there  still  though,  a  sort  of  family 
Robinson  Crusoe,  in  his  cottage,  practices  as  he  gets  it 
over  in  St.  Gildas,  and  brings  up  his  two  boys  in  their 
breezy  home,  and  would  not  change  his  secluded,  peace- 
ful, plodding  life  to  be  made  viceroy  of  all  Her  Majesty's 
dominions. 

Dr.  Macdonald's  island  castle  is  a  cottage — a  long, 
white  cottage,  only  one  story  and  an  attic  high.  But 
though  low,  it  is  lengthy,  and  contains  some  nine  or  ten 
pretty  rooms,  and  always  a  spare  chamber  for  the  pilgrim 
and  the  stranger  within  its  gates.  They  come  sometimes 
to  sketch,  and  fish,  and  shoot — bronzed  and  bearded  pil- 
grims, artists  from  the  States,  officers  from  Ottawa  and 
Montreal,  and  go  away  charmed  with  the  doctor,  the 
house,  the  cuisine,  the  sport,  the  sea.  He  would  be  diffi- 
cult indeed  whom  Dr.  Angus  Macdonald's  genial  man- 
ners, and  Madam  Aloysia's  cookery  would  fail  to  charm. 
Most  kindly  of  hosts,  most  gentle  of  gentlemen,  is  the 
dreamy  doctor,  and  in  her  way  "  Ma'am  Weesy  " — so  the 
children  shorten  her  stately  baptismal — is  a  cordon  bleu. 

The  cottage  sits  comfortably  in  a  garden,  and  the 

garden  is  shut  in  on  the  north  and  east  by  craggy  bluffs, 

that    break    the   force   of  the   beetling   Atlantic  winds. 

Behind  is  a  vegetable  garden,  with  currant  and  goose- 

6 


122  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

berry  bushes,  flourishing  among  the  potatoes  and  cab- 
bages ;  in  front  is  a  flower  garden — such  flowers  as  with 
infinite  coaxing  will  consent  to  blossom  in  so  bleak  a 
spot.  Hardy  old-fashioned  poppies  and  dahlias,  Lon- 
don pride,  queen  of  the  meadow,  bachelor  buttons,  and 
lilac  trees — these  with  southern  sunshine  and  western 
breezes,  brighten  the  island-garden  for  three  or  four 
months  out  of  the  twelve.  A  great  picturesque  trail  of 
hop-vine  and  scarlet  runner  drapes  the  porch,  and  twines 
in  pretty  festoons  round  the  window  of  the  doctor's 
study.  Take  it  for  all  in  all,  the  bearded  artists,  who 
carry  away  so  many  sketches  of  it  in  their  portfolios, 
may  be  sincere  enough  in  pronouncing  it  one  of  the 
most  capital  little  hermitages  the  round  world  holds. 

It  is  a  July  morning — forenoon  rather — for  eleven 
has  struck  by  the  doctor's  clock.  Peace  reigns  on  Isle 
Perdrix,  a  peace  that  may  almost  be  felt,  a  great  calm  of 
winds  and  sea.  The  summer  sky  is  without  a  cloud  ;  it 
is  blue,  blue,  blue,  and  flecked  with  rolling  billows  of 
white  wool — a  languid  zephyr,  with  the  saline  freshness 
of  the  ocean,  just  stirs  the  hop-vines,  but  faintly,  as  if  il 
too  were  a-weary  in  the  unusual  heat.  Little  baby  wave- 
lets lap  with  murmurous  motion  upon  the  gray  sands — 
the  gulls  that  whirl  and  circle  round  the  island  do  not 
even  shriek. 

Peace  reigns  too  within  the  cottage,  the  doctor  is 
from  home,  the  boys  are  at  St.  Gildas,  and  the  other  dis- 
turbing element  of  the  household  is — well,  Ma'am  Weesy 
does  not  exactly  know  where,  but  where  she  will  remain 
she  devoutly  hopes  for  another  hour  or  two.  Vain  hope 
— as  the  thought  crosses  the  old  woman's  mind,  there 
comes  the  sound  of  shrill,  sweet  singing,  a  quick  rush 
and  patter  of  small  feet,  a  shout,  and  there  whirls  into 
the  cottage  kitchen  a  girl  of  twelve,  out  oi  breath,  flushed 
with  Tanning,  but  singing  her  chorus  still — 

"  Here's  to  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  the  ship  that  goes, 
And  the  lass  that  loves  a  sailor." 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  123 

"Oh,  Ma'am  Weesy  !"  cries  this  breathless  apparition, 
"where  is  Johnny?" 

She  stands  in  the  doorway  directly  in  the  stream  of 
yellow  morning  sunshine,  her  sailor  hat  on  the  back  of 
her  head — a  charming  head  "sunning  over  with  curls," 
and  looks  with  two  eyes  as  blue  and  bright  as  the  July 
sky  itself,  into  the  old  woman's  face. 

She  is  a  charming  vision  altogether,  a  tall,  slim  girl, 
in  a  blue  print  dress  made  sailor-fashion,  and  trimmed 
with  white  braid,  a  strap  of  crimson  leather  belting  it 
about  the  slender  waist.  Long  ringlets  of  flaxen  fair- 
ness fall  until  they  touch  this  belt.  The  face  is  bewitch- 
ing, so  fair,  so  spirited,  so  full  of  life  and  eagerness,  and 
joyous  healthful  youth.  It  matches  the  blonde  hair  and 
sky-blue  eyes — it  is  all  rose-pink  and  pearl-white. 

Ma'am  Weesy  pauses  in  her  work  with  a  sort  of 
groan.  She  is  peeling  potatoes  for  dinner,  and  throwing 
them  into  a  tin  pan  of  cold  water  beside  her.  The  sunny 
kitchen  is  a  gem  of  cleanliness  and  comfort ;  Ma'am 
Weesy  herself  is  a  little  brown  old  person  of  fifty,  as 
active  and  agile  as  a  young  girl,  and  housekeeper  for 
fifteen  years  in  the  doctor's  cottage.  She  is  monarch  of 
all  she  surveys  at  present,  for  Madame  Macdcmald  is 
dead,  and  an  autocratic  ruler.  That  kitchen  "interior" 
is  a  picture ;  everything  it  contains  glows  and  gleams 
again  with  friction,  tinware  takes  on  the  brilliance  of 
silver,  the  rows  of  dishes  sparkle  in  the  sunshine.  In 
the  place  of  honor,  in  a  gilt  frame,  hangs  her  patron, 
that  handsome  Saint  Aloysius  Gonzaga,  to  whom  in  all 
her  difficulties,  culinary  as  well  as  conscientious,  she  is 
accustomed  to  promptly,  not  to  say  peremptorily,  appeal. 

She  casts  an  imploring  glance  at  him  now,  for  this 
youthful  person  is  the  one  of  all  the  family,  who  rasps 
and  exasperates  her  most,  but  Aloysius  continues  to  re- 
gard them  with  his  grave  smile,  and  responds  not. 

"  Where  is  Johnny?"  repeats  impatiently  the  vision  in 
flaxen  curls  and  sailor  suit;  "is  he  up-stairs?  I  can't 


124  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

find  him.  He  isn't  anywhere,  and  he  said — you  heard 
him  yourself  last  night,  Ma'am  Weesy  " — in  shrill  indig- 
nation— "  you  heard  him  say  he  would  take  me  out  in 
the  Boule-de-neige  this  forenoon.  And  now  it  is  past 
eleven  o'clock,  and  I  can't  find  him.  Johnny  !  John-ne- 
ee  !"  the  shrill  tones  rise  to  an  ear-splitting  shriek. 

"  Ah,  Mon  l}ieu!"  cries  out  old  Weesy,  and  covers  her 
ears  with  her  hands.  "  Mademoiselle,  leave  the  kitchen 
— leave  directly,  I  say  !  I  will  not  be  deafened  like  this. 
You  must  not  come  screaming  at  me  like  a  sea-gull,  it  is 
not  to  be  borne  ;  your  voice  is  worse  than  the  steam- 
whistle  down  at  the  Point  in  a  fog.  Master  Jean  is  not 
here — is  not  here,  I  tell  you.  He  went  to  St.  Gildas  right 
after  breakfast,  and  has  not  yet  returned." 

"To  St.  Gildas?"  repeats  the  young  person  in  blue, 
and  an  expression  of  blank  despair  crosses  the  sunny 
face. 

Then  she  looks  at  Ma'am  Weesy  and  brightens  a  bit. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  says,  promptly. 

"  It  is  true,  nevertheless,  ma'amselle.  I  wanted  coffee 
and  sugar,  and  he  offered  to  go.  But  he  must  be  back 
by  now — it  is  hours  since  he  went.  Go  down  to  the 
Point  and  call.  .  M'sieur  Rene,  at  least,  is  sure  to  be 
there." 

"I  don't  want  M'sieur  Rene,"  says  mademoiselle,  in 
an  aggressive  tone.  "  I  want  Johnny.  I  think  it  is  hor- 
rid of  you,  Ma'am  Weesy,  to  go  sending  him  for  sugar 
and  things,  when  you  might  know  I'd  want  him.  You 
might  have  sent  old  Tim.  And  now  it  is  fourteen  min- 
utes past  eleven,  and  the  best  of  the  day  gone.  You  wait 
until  you  want  me  to  shell  peas  for  you,  or  rake  clams, 
and  you'll  see." 

With  which  dark  threat  this  young  person  crushes 
her  sailor  hat  with  some  asperity  down  on  her  pale  gold 
curls,  and  turns  despondently  to  go. 

Ma'am  Weesy  looks  after  her  with  a  chuckle  ;  it  is  not 
always  she  can  get  rid  of  her  thus  easily,  and  a  gad-fly 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  125 

about  the  kitchen  would  be  less  of  a  torment  over  her 
work  than  mademoiselle. 

Mademoiselle,  meantime,  recovers  her  spirits  with 
great  rapidity,  the  moment  she  is  out  of  the  house,  and 
starts  off  at  racing  speed,  despite  the  blazing  sun,  to  the 
Point.  It  is  a  lofty  peak,  at  the  extreme  outer  edge  of  a 
projecting  tongue  of  land,  overlooking  the  bay  and  the 
town,  across  the  river,  and  all  boats  passing  up  or  down. 
If  the  missing  Johnny  is  on  sea  or  shore,  mademoiselle 
is  determined  he  shall  know  she  awaits  him  and  hastens 
his  lagging  steps.  So  standing  erect  on  her  lofty  perch, 
overlooking  the  vasty  deep,  she  uplifts  her  strong  young 
voice,  and 

"Johnny!  Johnny-y  !  Johnny-y-y  !"  pierces  the  cir- 
cumambient air.  Even  the  sea-gulls  pause  in  consterna- 
tion as  they  listen. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  cries  a  voice,  at  last.  "  Stop  that 
awful  row,  Snowball.  Your  shrieks  are  enough  to  wake 
the  dead." 

The  speaker  is  a  youth  of  sixteen  or  so,  stretched  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  rock  on  which  the  girl  stands, 
his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  trying  to  read.  Vain  effort, 
with  those  maddening  cries  for  Johnny  rending  the  sum- 
mer silence. 

Snowball  glances  down  at  him,  and  her  only  answer 
is  a  still  more  ear-splitting  and  distracted  appeal  for  the 
lost  and  longed-for  "Johnny." 

"  They  may  wake  the  dead  if  they  like,"  she  says,  dis- 
dainfully, "but  they  needn't  wake  you.  I  don't  want 
you.  I  want  Johnny." 

"Yes,  I  hear  you  do,"  retorts  the  reader.  "You  al- 
ways do  want  Johnny,  don't  you  ?  You  want  Johnny  a 
good  deal  more  than  Johnny  ever  wants  you." 

It  is  an  uncivil  speech,  and,  it  may  be  remarked  just 
here,  that  the  amenities  of  life,  as  passing  between  M. 
Rene  Macdonald  and  Mile.  Snowball  Trillon,  are  mostly 
of  an  acid  and  acrid  character.  Open  rupture  indeed  is 


i26  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

often  imminent,  and  is  only  avoided  by  the  fact  that  the 
young  lady  is  constitutionally  unable  to  retain  indigna- 
tion for  over  five  minutes  at  any  one  time.  Her  reply  to 
this  particularly  ungallant  speech,  is  one  of  her  very 
sweetest  smiles — a  smile  that  dances  in  the  blue  eyes,  and 
flashes  out  two  rows  of  small  pearl-white  teeth. 

"  Look  here,  Rene,"  she  says,  "  I  wish  you  would 
come,  too.  You'll  make  yourself  as  blind  as  a  bat,  if  you 
keep  on  over  books  forever  and  ever.  I  think  I  see 
Johnny  and  the  batteau  coming  across,  and  we're  going 
to  Chapeau  Dieu  for  raspberries.  *Do — do  put  that 
stupid  book  in  your  pocket,"  impatiently,  "and  come." 

"  It  isn't  a  stupid  book,"  says  Rene  Macdonald,  "  and 
berrying  is  much  too  hard  work  this  scorcher  of  a  day. 
You'll  inveigle  Johnny  into  a  sunstroke  if  you  don't 
take  care." 

"  Look  here  !"  repeats  Snowball,  and  comes  dashing 
down  the  steep  side  of  the  cliff  like  a  young  chamois. 
The  last  five  feet  she  takes  with  a  flying  leap,  and  lands 
like  a  tornado  at  the  lad's  side.  "Just  look  here  !" 

Sne  produces  from  a  hiding-place  a  basket — a  mar- 
ket-basket of  noble  proportions,  whips  off  the  cover,  and 
displays  the  contents. 

"  Sandwiches,"  she  says,  with  unction,  "  made  of 
minced  veal  and  ham,  lovely  and  thin — cold  chicken  pie, 
pound  cake — all  stolen  from  Ma'am  Weesy,  Rene! — bis- 
cuits, and  a  blueberry  tart  !  The  basket  is  full—///// — I 
packed  it  myself.  It's  for  our  lunch.  And  the  raspber- 
ries are  thick — thick,  Rene,  over  on  the  Banens.  Johnny 
was  there  yesterday,  and  says  so.  And  Weesy  is  going 
to  make  jam,  and  says  we  can  have  raspberry  shortcake 
every  evening  for  a  week.  For  a  week — think  of  that !" 

She  is  fairly  dancing  with  eagerness  as  she  speaks,  her 
great  blue  eyes  flash  like  stars,  her  whole  piquant,  spirited 
face  aglow  and  flushed.  Even  Rene — Rene  the  phleg- 
matic— catches  a  little  of  her  enthusiasm.  Raspberry 
shortcake  every  d  xy  for  a  week — and  raspberry  jam  for 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  127 

ever  after  !  His  resolution  staggers — he  hesitates — he  is 
lost  ! 

"Do  ccme  !"  reiterates  Snowball,  and  eyes  and  lips, 
and  clasped  hands  repeat  the  prayer.  She  looks  lovely 
as  she  stands  in  that  beseeching  attitude,  but  it  is  not  her 
beauty,  nor  her  entreating  tone  that  moves  the  obdurate 
Rene — it  is  the  sweet  prospect  of  shortcake  and  jam. 

"  Well,"  he  says,  condescendingly,  "  I  don't  care  if  I 
do.  It's  always  easier  yielding  than  rowing  with  you, 
and  papa  told  me  to  keep  you  and  Jack  out  of  mischief 
whenever  I  got  a  chance." 

He  is  a  slender,  dark-skinned,  dark-eyed,  French- 
looking  boy,  very  like  his  dead  Canadian  mother — not 
exactly  handsome,  and  yet  sufficiently  attractive,  with 
that  broad,  pale  forehead,  and  those  dark,  luminous  eyes. 
All  sort  of  misty,  dreamy  ideas  float  behind  that  thought- 
ful-looking brow;  he  is  quite  a  prodigy  of  industry  and 
talent,  head  boy  of  St.  Francis  College,  over  at  St.  Gildas, 
where  he  and  his  brother  are  students. 

"  There's  Johnny,  now  !"  cries  Snowball,  in  accents  of 
exquisite  delight.  She  drops  the  basket  and  bounds 
away  fleet  as  a  fawn.  "Johnny!  Johnny!"  she  calls, 
"  I've  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,  and  calling  until 
I  am  hoarse.  How  could  you  be  so  awfully  horrid  as  to 
go  to  St.  Gildas  and  never  tell  me?" 

"  Hadn't  time,"  responds  Master  Johnny,  resting  on 
the  gunwale  of  his  boat,  the  " Boule-de-ncige"  "Weesy 
wanted  her  groceries  in  no  end  of  a  hurry.  I'm  here 
now,  though  ;  what  do  you  want  ?" 

John  Macdonald  is  fourteen  years  old,  and  is  at  this 
moment,  perhaps,  the  handsomest  boy  in  Canada.  His 
face  is  simply  beautiful.  He  is  handsomer  even,  in  his 
boyish  fashion,  than  tne  pretty  girl  who  stands  beside 
him.  He  is  not  in  the  least  like  his  brother  ;  he  is  taller 
at  fourteen  than  Rene  at  sixteen — he  is  fair,  like  his 
Scottish  forefathers,  with  sea-gray  eyes,  and  a  face  per- 
fect enough,  in  form  and  color,  for  an  ideal  god.  His 


i28  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

hair  light  brown,  profuse  and  curling,  his  skin  is  tanned 
by  much  exposure  to  sea  and  sun  and  wind,  and  a  cer- 
tain simplicity  and  unconsciousness  of  his  own  good 
looks  lends  a  last  charm  to  a  face  that  wins  all  hearts  at 
sight. 

"What  do  I  want?"  repeats  Snowball,  fixing  two  re- 
proachful eyes  on  the  placid  countenance  before  her ; 
'•'•that's  a  question  for  you  to  sit  there  and  ask  without  a 
blush,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Don't  see  anything  to  blush  about,"  retorts  Johnny, 
with  a  grim  ;  "  it's  too  hot  to  go  to  Chapeau  Dieu,  if 
that's  what's  the  matter.  The  sun  is  a  blazer  on  the 
water,  let  me  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Johnny,"  in  blankest  disappointment,  '•''dearest 
Johnny,  don't  say  so.  And  after  all  the  trouble  I've  had, 
too — fixing  the  loveliest  lunch — chicken-pie,  tarts  and 
everything !  Oh,  Johnny,  dorit  back  out  at  the  last 
minute." 

Tears  spring  into  the  blue,  beseeching  eyes,  the  hands 
clasp  again,  she  stands  a  picture  of  heart-broken  suppli- 
cation before  him. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  says  Johnny,  who  hates  tears.  "  I 
wouldn't  cry  about  it  if  I  were  you.  Where's  Rene? 
Shinning  up  the  tree  of  knowledge,  as  usual,  I  suppose." 

"  He's  coming  too.  Johnny,  you're  a  darling  !"  cries 
Snowball,  in  a  rapture  ;  "  don't  let  us  lose  a  minute  ;  the 
lunch  basket  is  here.  It  is  half-past  eleven — we  ought 
to  have  been  off  two  hours  ago." 

"  I  must  go  up  to  the  house  with  the  things,"  says 
Johnny,  unmoved  by  all  this  adulation.  "  You  and  Rene 
can  pile  in  and  wait.  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

"Don't  tell  Weesy  where  we're  going,"  calls  Snow- 
ball after  him  ;  "  she  hates  me  to  go  berrying,  because  I 
tear  my  clothes  and  stain  my  stockings.  And,  for  good- 
ness sake,  hurry  up.  It  will  be  two  o'clock  now  before 
we  get  there,  do  your  best." 

"  Which  I'm  not  going  to  do  it,  in  the  present  state  oi 


ISLE    PERDRIX. 


129 


the  thermometer,"  responds  Johnny,  leisurely  taking  up 
his  parcels,  and  leisurely  departing.  He  is  never  in 
hurry,  this  boy,  and  is  thereby  a  striking  contrast  to 
Snowball,  who  always  is.  Extremes  meet  indeed,  in 
their  case,  for  they  are  as  utterly  unlike  in  most  ways,  as 
boy  and  girl  can  well  be.  In  all  conflict  of  opinion 
between  them,  it  may  be  added,  mademoiselle  invariably 
comes  off  victorious.  It  is  always  easier,  as  Rene  has 
said,  and  as  Johnny  knows,  where  she  is  concerned,  to 
yield  than  to  do  battle.  Not  that  Rene  ever  yields — he 
and  Snowball  fight  it  out  to  the  bitter  end,  and  Rene  will 
be  minded,  or  know  the  reason  why. 

The  batteau  is  large  for  that  sort  of  boat,  carries  a 
small  sail,  is  a  beauty  in  her  way,  and  the  idol  of  young 
John  Macdonald's  heart. 

"  She  walks  the  water  like  a  thing  of  life,"  he  is  fond 
of  quoting,  gazing  at  her  with  glistening  eyes,  and  it  is 
the  only  poetry  he  is  ever  guilty  of  quoting.  She  is 
painted  virgin  white,  is  as  clean  and  dry  as  old  Weesy's 
kitchen,  and  carries  h^r  name  in  gilt  letters  on  her  stern, 
'•  Boule-de-neige."  The  original  Boule-de-neige,  with 
Rene,  "piles  in  "  according  to  the  skipper's  orders,  and 
with  the  precious  basket  stowed  away,  sit  and  wait  his 
return.  Snowball  taps  impatiently  with  one  slim,  san- 
daled foot. 

Rene  impassively  reads. 

"  What  tiresome  book  have  you  got  ntnv?"  demands 
Snowball,  in  a  resentful  tone.  "  I  do  think,  Rene,  you 
are  the  stupidest  boy  that  ever  lived,  and  read  the  stupid- 
est books  that  ever  were  printed." 

"  Thanks  ! — I  mean  for  self  and  books,"  retorts  Rene, 
"you,  who  never  open  a  book,  are  a  judge,  of  course." 

"  What  is  that?" 

"  Shakespeare's  tragedies,  mademoiselle." 

"There  will  be  another  tragedy  in  this  boat,  in  five 
minutes  if  you  don't  put  it  in  your  pocket.  Look  at  that 
sky,  look  at  this  sea,  feel  this  velvety  wind  freshening,. 


1 3o  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

and  see  yourself,  a  great  hobbledehoy,  who  can  sit  and 
read  dull  old  English  murders  in  the  face  of  it  all  !  I 
suppose  you  are  at  Macbeth  ;  I  think  Lady  Macbeth 
would  have  been  a  splendid  wife  for  you,  Rene." 

Rene  grunts,  assent  or  dissent,  as  she  likes  to  take  it, 
and  reads  on. 

"  Stern,  and  sulky,  and  horrid.  Oh,  Rene — be  good- 
natured  for  once — only  for  once — by  way  of  a  change; 
and  shut  up  that  book,  and  talk  like  a  Christian — do  !" 

"  Like  a  noodle,  if  I  talk  to  you.  It  is  polite  to  adapt 
one's  conversation  to  one's  company.  And  I  would 
rather  not.  It  is  triste  to  talk  rubbish.  Speech  is  silver, 
silence  is  gold." 

"Here  is  Johnny,"  cries  Snowball,  joyfully;  "now 
we  will  have  a  little  rational  conversation — for  which, 
Dieu  merci !  I  sometimes  wonder  what  I  should  do  with- 
out Johnny.  If  I  had  to  live  here — if  I  had  to  live  on 
this  island  alone  with  you,  Rene,  do  you  know  what 
would  happen  ?" 

"  That  you  would  drive  me  to  jump  over  Headland 
Point  to  escape  your  everlasting  chatter,  I  dare  say,"  says 
Rene. 

"  That  you  would  drive  me  into  melancholy  madness 
with  your  silence,  and  your  dismal  books.  Fancy  your- 
self stalking  about  like  your  favorite  Hamlet,  in  a  black 
velvet  dressing-gown,  and  me,  like  a  gloomy  Ophelia, 
with  a  wreath  of  sun-flowers  and  sea-weed  in  my  hair, 
trailing  after,  singing  tail-ends  of  songs  out  of  tune." 

Something  in  this  picture  tickles  the  not  too  easily 
aroused  sense  of  humor  latent  in  Dr.  Macdonald's  eldei 
son. 

Rather  to  the  surprise  of  Snowball,  who  does  not 
mean  to  be  funny,  he  throws  back  his  dark  head,  and 
laughs  outright.  And  Rene  Macdonald  has  a  wonder- 
fully pleasant  and  mellow  laugh. 

"  What's  the  joke?"  asks  Johnny,  bearing  down  upon 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  131 

them  rapidly.  "  Got  the  basket,  Snowball  ?  Yes,  I  see 
Bear  a  hand,  Rene,  old  boy.  Hooray,  off  she  goes  !" 

The  boat  slips  easily  off  the  shelving  beach,  and  out 
into  the  shining  waters  of  Bay  Chalette.  A  fresh  breeze 
has  sprung  up,  and  tempers  the  fierce  heat  of  the  noon- 
day sun.  The  sail  is  set,  and  away  the  pretty  Boule-de- 
neige  flies  in  the  teeth  of  the  brisk  breeze. 

Johnny  is  past-master  of  the  art  of  handling  a  boat ; 
he  and  his  batteau  are  known  everywhere,  for  miles 
along  the  coast.  He  has  been  a  toiler  of  the  sea  ever 
since  he  was  seven  years  old. 

"  You  didn't  tell  ^Yeesy,  did  you  ?"  asks  Snowball,  as 
they  fly  along  at  a  spanking  rate. 

"  She  didn't  ask  me,"  answers  Johnny.  "  I  told  her 
we  were  all  going  out  for  a  sail,  and  wouldn't  be  back 
until  dark.  She  cast  a  grateful  look  at  St.  Aloysius, 
over  the  chimney,  and  murmured  a  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving. Have  you  brought  tin  pails  for  the  berries? — 
yes,  I  see — all  right." 

They  fly  along.  And  presently  Snowball,  lying  idly 
over  the  side,  her  sailor  hat  well  back  on  her  head,  de- 
fiant alike  of  sun  and  wind,  breaks  into  a  song,  and 
presently  Johnny  joins  in  the  chorus.  It  is  a  sailor's 
song — a  monotonous  chant  the  French  sailors  sing  along 
the  wharves  of  St.  Gildas,  as  they  coil  down  ropes,  and 
the  two  fresh  young  voices  blend  sweetly,  and  float  over 
the  summer  waters.  And  still  a  little  later  Rene  pockets 
his  book,  and  his  clear  tenor  adds  force  to  the  refrain  as 
they  rapidly  increase  the  distance  between  themselves 
and  Isle  Perdrix. 

"  \Yhere  are  you  going  to  land,  Johnny  ?"  he  asks,  at 
length.  "  At  Sugar  Scoop  beach,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  don't,  Johnny,"  cuts  in  Snowball,  who  is  no- 
thing if  not  contradictory,  "land  at  Needle's  Point,  like 
a  good  fellow." 

"Sha'n't,"  returns  Johnny.  "I  don't  want  to  stove  a 
hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  batteau.  Needle's  Point,  in- 


1 32  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

deed  !  the  worst  bit  of  beach  all  along  Chapeau  Dieu. 
Catch  me !" 

"  But  I  say  you  shall  !"  cries  Snowball,  sitting  up, 
and  violently  excited  all  in  a  moment.  "You  must. 
Never  mind  the  batteau — at  least  she  won't  get  a  hole  in 
her.  If  you  land  at  Sugar  Scoop  we  will  have  two  full 
miles  to  walk  to  Raspberry  Plains — two — full — miles," 
says  mademoiselle,  gesticulating  wildly,  "in  this  blazing 
hot  sun.  Whereas,  if  you  land  at  Needle's  Point " 

"The  Boule-de-neige  is  ruined  for  life,"  interposes 
Rene.  "  Don't  you  mind  her,  Johnny;  she's  always  a  little 
cracked." 

"  You  must  mind  me,  Johnny  !  If  you  land  at  Sugar 
Scoop  I — I'll  sit  right  here  !"  cries  Snowball,  vindictively. 
"I'll  never  stir.  And  I'll  keep  the  lunch  basket — it's 
mine,  anyhow — I  put  it  up.  And  I'll  eat  everything  !  I 
won't  walk  two  miles.  It's  nearly  two  o'clock  now  ;  it 
would  be  four  when  we  got  there.  We  would  just  have 
time  for  one  look  at  the  berries,  and  then  march  back 
again  !  You  shall  land  at  Needle's  Point,  or  you  needn't 
land  at  all.  There  !" 

Johnny  shrugs  his  shoulders  resignedly.  When  the 
torrent  of  Snowball's  angry  eloquence  floods  him  after 
this  fashion,  Johnny  always  gives  up.  Anything  for  a 
quiet  life,  is  his  peaceful  motto.  But  the  belligerent  fire 
awakes  within  the  less-yielding  Rene. 

"Johnny,"  he  says,  in  an  ominously  quiet  tone,  "let 
us  put  her  ashore,"  indicating  mademoiselle  by  a  scorn- 
ful gesture,  "at  her  beloved  Needle's  Point,  and  you  and 
I  will  take  the  boat  round  to  Sugar  Scoop  beach.  It 
will  be  madness  to  run  the  batteau  up  on  those  rocks." 

Snowball  starts  to  her  feet,  defiance  flashing  in  the 
a/ure  eyes,  flushing  the  rose-pink  cheeks  to  angry  crim- 
son. 

"Yes,  Johnny,"  she  cries  out,  "put  me  ashore  at 
Needle's  Point;  put  me  ashore  here,  anywhere;  but 
mind" — wildest  wrath  flaming  upon  Rene — "I  keep  the 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  133 

basket.  No  matter  what  you  do,  or  where  you  put  me,  I 
keep  the  lunch  basket." 

"Oh,  stow  all  that!"  says  the  badgered  but  pacific 
Johnny.  "Sit  down,  Snowball;  do  you  want  to  upset 
yourself  and  your  precious  lunch  basket  into  the  bay  ? 
Let  her  alone,  Rene  ;  it's  never  any  use  fighting  with 
her;  you  know  she'll  have  her  way,  if  she  dies  for  it. 
I'll  land  you  at  Needle's  Point  or  on  top  of  Chapeau 
Dieu,  if  you  like,  Snowball,  only,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't 
make  such  an  awful  row." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Rene  ;  "  it  is  you  who  will  repent, 
not  I.  The  batteau  is  yours.  If  you  like  to  scuttle 
her " 

His  shoulders  go  up  for  a  moment  expressively  ;  then 
he  pulls  out  his  book,  and  relapses  into  dignity — and 
Shakespeare. 

"  I  guess  it  won't  be  so  bad  as  that.  It  will  be  high 
tide  when  we  get  there,  and  I'll  manage  to  run  her  up." 
Thus  hopefully,  Johnny,  and  thus,  in  silence,  the  rest  of 
the  voyage  is  performed. 

Chapeau  Dieu — so  called  from  its  fancied  resemblance 
to  a  cardinal's  hat — is  a  mountain  of  ponderous  propor- 
tions, as  to  circumference,  though  nothing  remarkable  as 
to  height.  Its  base  is  the  terror  of  all  mariners  and  coasters 
— rock-bound,  beetling,  undermined  with  sunken  reefs; 
a  spot  marked  dangerous  on  all  charts  ;  a  place  to  be 
given  the  widest  possible  berth  on  a  dark  night  or  a  foggy 
day.  Many,  many  good  ships  have  lain  their  bones  to 
rest  forever  in  the  seething  reefs  that  encircle  Chapeau 
Dieu.  But  the  mountain  is  famous,  the  country  round, 
as  a  place  for  picnics,  berrying  parties,  and  the  like, 
though  anxious  parents  tremble  a  little,  even  in  the  sun- 
niest weather,  at  thought  of  their  young  people  there. 
For  sudden  squalls  have  been  known  to  rise,  and  gay 
pleasure-boats,  with  their  merry  crews,  have  gone  clown 
in  one  dreadful  minute,  to  be  seen  no  more.  There  is 
but  one  safe  landing-place— Sugar  Scoop  beach — but 


i34  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

Snowball  will  none  of  it ;  so,  perforce,  they  must  try  the 
more  dangerous  Needle's  Point. 

They  reach  it — a  black  jagged  ledge,  the  stately  cliff 
rising  sheer  above,  hundreds  of  feet — a  black,  perpen- 
dicular wall  of  rock.  It  is  an  anxious  moment,  as 
Johnny  steers  the  Boule-de-neige  between  two  sheets  of 
white  churning  foam,  its  bottom  grating  on  the  rocks  as 
it  goes.  But  there  is  no  surf,  and  the  lad  is  an  expert, 
and  the  pretty  little  boat  slips  in  like  a  white  snake,  and 
is  safe  inside  the  churning  foam. 

"You've  done  it,"  says  Rene,  "but  you're  a  fool  to 
have  risked  it,  old  boy,  and  a  sweet  time  you  are  likely 
to  have  getting  her  off  with  the  ebb  tide.  However,  it  is 
your  lookout.  Make  her  fast,  as  far  out  as  you  can.  We 
will  have  a  wade  for  it,  and  she  will  be  wet  to  the  elbows 
— that  is  some  comfort." 

This  last  brotherly  remark  Snowball  does  not  hear, 
being  busy  with  her  tin  pails  and  basket.  But  she  over- 
takes him  at  this  point. 

"Now  then!  hasn't  he  done  it?"  she  exclaims,  tri- 
umphantly, "  anybody  could  doit,  /could  do  it — even 
you  could  do  it,  though  you  can't  do  much.  Hurry  up, 
Johnny — you  must  be  famished,  I  am  sure,"  with  exag- 
gerated sympathy  and  affection.  "  You've  had  the  whole 
work  of  bringing  us  here,  and  deserve  your  luncheon." 

Which  is  unjust  to  Rene,  who  has  helped  manfully. 
A  contemptuous  glance,  however,  is  his  only  retort — he, 
too,  is  hungry,  and  silence  is  safest,  until  appetite  is  ap- 
peased. Snowball  is  queen  regnant  of  the  iunch  basket. 

"All  right,"  says  Johnny,  "go  ahead.  I'll  be  there. 
Set  out  the  prog,  Snowball — I  am  uncommonly  sharp- 
set." 

"  Now  you  see,"  continues  Snowball  to  Rene,  "  how 
much  better  it  was  to  land  here  than  at  the  other  place. 
But  that  is  all  over — there  is  nothing  more  hateful  than 
a  person  always  trying  to  have  his  own  way.  Sugar 
Scoop  is  two  miles  from  everywhere.  I  do  hope  you'll 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  135 

not   be  so  obstinate  another  time,  Rene,  but  let  people 
judge  for  you  who  know  best  !" 

Snowball  is  one  of  that  exasperating  class  who  never 
can  let  well  enough  alone  ;  who  say,  "I  told  you  so  "  on 
every  occasion,  with  a  superior  look  that  makes  you  long 
to  commit  murder.  Rene  could  throw  her  over  the  cliff 
at  the  present  moment,  with  the  utmost  pleasure,  but 
still  she  holds  the  basket,  and  still  he  holds  his  tongue. 

"  Hand  us  those  pails,"  he  says,  gruffly,  and  rather 
snatches  them  than  otherwise.  But  there  is  no  time 
Snowball  feels  for  rebuke  ;  Johnny  is  bounding  up  the 
cliff  in  agile  leaps. 

"Here  is  a  place,"  says  the  small  vixen,  "perhaps 
you'll  stop  being  sulky,  M'sieur  Rene,  and  help  me  to  lay 
the  things." 

Rene  obeys  in  dignified  silence,  the  twain  work  with 
a  will,  and  spread  chicken  pie,  and  pound  cake,  and  sand- 
wiches in  a  tempting  way.  Here  is  a  twinkling  tin  cup 
to  drink  out  of,  and  a  spring  of  ice-cold  water  bubbles 
near,  so  theirs  is  a  feast  for  the  gods. 

They  fall  to,  with  appetites  naturally  healthful,  and 
set  painfully  on  edge  by  two  hours  and  a  half  of  salt  sea 
air. 

Luncheon  has  the  soothing  effect  of  clearing  the 
moral  atmosphere — they  eat  and  drink,  and  laugh  and 
talk,  in  highest  good  humor.  Indeed,  lest  you  should 
think  too  badly  of  Mademoiselle  Snowball — that  we  have 
got  hold  of  a  youthful  virago  in  fact,  it  may  be  said,  that 
she  only  quarrels  with  Rene  on  principle,  and  for  his 
good.  She  feels  he  needs  putting  down,  and  she  puts 
him  down  accordingly.  It  is  rather  a  motherly — a 
grandmotherly  if  you  like — sort  of  thing.  And  she 
never  (hardly  ever)  quarrels  with  any  one  else.  And 
her  wildest  outburst  of  indignation  never  lasts,  as  has 
been  stated,  more  than  five  minutes  at  any  one  time.  It  is 
aconstitutional  impossibility  for  Snowball  to  retain  anger. 
For  Johnny — she  loves  him  and  bullies  him — is  his  chum 


136  ISLE    PERDRIX. 

and  comrade,  would  die  for  him,  or  box  his  ears  with 
equal  readiness.  She  is  never  altogether  happy  aw-iy  from 
him,  while  Master  Jean  in  a  general  way  sees  her  go 
with  a  sense  of  profound  relief,  and  never  wholly  dare 
call  his  soul  his  own  in  her  whirlwind  presence.  At  the 
present  stage  of  his  existence  he  feels  her  overpowering 
affection  a  little  too  much  for  him,  and  could  cheerfully 
dispense  with — say  two-thirds  of  it,  with  all  the  pleasure 
in  life. 

"  Now,  I  call  this  splendid,"  says  Snowball,  gathering 
up  the  fragments  of  the  feast.  "  Rene,  you  have  a  watch, 
what's  the  time  ?" 

"  Quarter  past  three,"  answers  Rene,  lazily,  looking 
at  his  gold  repeater,  a  last  birthday-gift  from  his  father. 
"  If  you  intend  to  get  any  raspberries  to-day,  it  strikes 
me  it  is  time  you  and  Johnny  were  at  it !" 

"  Me  and  Johnny  !"  cries  Snowball,  shrilly,  "and  you, 
for  example — what  of  you,  my  friend  ?" 

"  I,"  says  Rene,  pulling  out  the  obnoxious  Shake- 
speare, "  will  lie  here  and  look  at  you,  and  improve  my 
mind  with  '  Richard  the  Third.'  " 

Snowball  makes  one  flying  leap,  pounces  upon 
Shakespeare,  and  hugs  him  to  her  breast. 

"Never!"  she  cries,  "never,  while  life  beats  in  this 
bosom  !  Johnny,  you  help  me.  Will  you  come  and 
pick,  sir,  or  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Not,"  says  Rene,  "  much  rather  not.  Give  me  back 
my  book,  Snowball !"  in  quick  alarm.  "  Stop  !" 

She  stands  on  the  dizzy  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  Shake- 
speare is  poised  high — perilously  high — above  her  head. 

"Promise,"  she  exclaims,  "promise  to  pick,  else  here 
I  vow  over  the  cliff  Shakespeare  goes,  full  fifty  fathoms 
under  Bay  Chalette.  Promise,  or  never  see  him  more." 

"  Snowball,  you  would  not  dare  !"  in  angry  alarm  ; 
for  he  knows  she  would  dare — has  dared  more  daring 
deeds  than  this.  And  Johnny  stands  and  grins  approval. 


ISLE    PERDRIX.  137 

"  Chuck  it  over,  Snowball,"  he  says,  "  or  make  him 
help  us — I'll  back  you  up." 

"One  ! — two  ! "  cries  Snowball,  eyes  and  cheeks 

aglow  with  wicked  delight.  "  If  I  say  three,  over  it  goes. 
One  ! — two  ! Do  you  promise,  or " 

"  Oh,  confound  you  !  yes,  I  promise.     Give  me  my 
book  !"  says  enraged  Rene.     "  I  would  like  to  throw  you  ' 
over  instead — I  will,  some  day,  if  you  exasperate  me  too 
far." 

"  The  spirit  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak.  You 
daren't,  Rene,  dearest,"  laughs  Snowball.  She  hands 
him  the  book  as  she  speaks,  knowing  well  he  will  not 
break  his  word. 

" '  Come  on.  my  merry  men  all, 
We  will  to  the  greenwood  hie  !'  " 

she  sings,  gleefully,  and  snatches  up  one  of  the  tin  pails 
and  bounds  away. 

Rene  consigns  his  cherished  volume  to  his  pocket, 
picks  up  a  tin  pail,  and  prepares  to  follow,  when  a  cry 
from  Johnny — a  low,  hoarse,  agonized  cry — makes  him 
stop.  He  looks.  His  brother  stands,  every  trace  of  color 
fading  from  his  face,  his  gray  eyes  wide  with  dismay,  one 
flickering  finger  pointing  seaward.  Rene  follows  the 
finger,  and  gazes,  and  sees — yards  away,  floating  out  with 
the  turning  tide,  farther  and  farther  every  second — the 
Eoule-de-neige  ! 

" Mon  Dieu!"  he  cries,  and  stands  stunned. 

It  is  a  moment  before  he  can  take  in  the  full  magni- 
tude of  the  disaster.  The  boat  is  gone,  past  all  recall, 
and  they  are  here,  lost  on  Chapeau  Dieu. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  Rene  exclaims,  under  his  breath  ; 
"  Johnny,  how  is  this  ?" 

"I  did  not  make  her  fast,"  Johnny  answers,  huskily. 
"  I  thought  I  did,  but  it  was  a  hard  place,  and  Snowball 
was  calling.  I  did  not  make  her  secure — and  now  she 


t38  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

is  gone,  my  Boule-de-neige,  and  I  may  never  see  her 
again  !" 

There  is  agony,  real  agony,  in  his  voice.  Not  for 
himself,  in  this  first  moment,  does  he  care — not  for  the 
misfortune  that  has  come  upon  them,  that  may  end  in 
darkest  disaster — but  for  his  darling,  his  treasure,  the 
joy  of  his  heart,  his  white  idol,  Boule-de-neige. 

Rene  says  nothing  ;  he  feels  fror  his  brother's  bereave- 
ment too  deeply,  and  consternation  is  in  his  soul.  So 
they  stand  and  gaze,  and  farther,  and  farther,  and  farther 
away,  with  the  swelling  tide,  floats  the  faithless  Boule-de- 
neige  ! 


CHAPTER   XII. 
CHAPEAU     DIEU. 

ND  it  is  all  Snowball's  fault !" 

It  is  Rene  who  speaks  the  words,  pas- 
sionate anger  in  his  voice — the  first  words 
that  break  the  long  silence.  Far  off,  the 
batteau  is  but  a  white  drifting  speck,  after  which  they 
strain  their  eyes  until  they  are  half  blind.  Johnny's 
eyes  are  dim. 

"  It  is  all  Snowball's  fault !"  passionately  repeats 
Rene.  Far  away  and  faint,  her  sweet  singing  reaches 
them,  broken  now  and  then,  as  the  fruit  she  picks  finds 
its  way  between  her  rosy  lips,  instead  of  into  the  shining 
pail.  The  sound  is  to  his  wrath  as  "vinegar  upon 
niter." 

"  It  is  all  her  fault.  She  would  come  to  Chapeau 
Dieu,  she  would  land  here  and  nowhere  else.  Johnny,  it 
serves  you  right !  You  yield  to  her  in  everything.  You 
should  not  have  let  her  force  you  to  land  here." 


CHAPEAU    DIEU.  139 

Johnny  says  nothing-.  "  His  heart  is  with  his  eyes, 
and  that  is  far  away  " — far  away,  to  where  £oule-de*neige, 
beautiful,  traitorous  Boule-de-neige,  floats  out  to  the  open 
sea. 

"  She  is  a  tyrant.  Every  one  spoils  her — you  all  do — 
papa,  Weesy,  and  you,  Johnny,  worst  of  all.  You  let 
her  have  her  way  in  everything,  and  no  good  ever  can 
come  of  it.  Now,  we  are  here,  and  here  we  may  remain. 
And  it  is  all  her  doing  from  first  to  last." 

"  It's  no  use  talking  now,"  says  Johnny,  huskily,  "the 
batteau's  gone — gone  !" 

"  Yes,  I  see  it's  gone,"  bitterly,  "and  I  hear  her  sing- 
ing over  yonder  still !  You  had  better  go  and  tell  her, 
and  see  if  she  will  not  change  her  tune !" 

Johnny  turns  away — not  to  tell  Snowball,  however. 
The  boat  is  quite  out  of  sight  now,  gone  forever  it  may 
be,  and  Johnny  feels  that  his  voice  is  not  to  be  trusted, 
with  this  great  lump  rising  and  falling  in  his  throat ! 

There  is  a  pause.  Rene  stands,  a  statue  of  angry 
grief  and  despair,  and  still  strains  his  eyes  over  the  blue 
shining  sea.  No  boats  are  to  be  seen  ;  far  off  on  the 
horizon  there  are  sails,  but  none  of  these  sails  will  ever 
come  near.  All  craft  steer  wide  of  fatal  Chapeau  Dieu. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?"  he  bursts  out  at  length  ;  "  look 
here,  Johnny,  it's  no  time  to  sit  down  and  cry." 

"  I'm  not  crying  !"  retorts  Johnny,  angrily,  looking 
up,  but  his  eyes  look  red  as  he  says  it,  and  his  voice 
breaks  short. 

"The  batteau's  gone,"  pursues  the  relentless  Rene, 
"and  we  are  here.  Now  how  are  we  to  get  off  ?" 

"  Wait  until  something  comes  along  and  takes  us  off, 
I  suppose." 

"And  how  long  may  that  be?  Nothing  ever  comes 
this  way — no  one  in  their  senses  ever  lands  at  Needle's 
Point.  You  know  that.  Unless  a  storm  drives  a  fishing 
boat  or  a  coaster  out  of  their  course,  nothing  will  ever 
come  within  miles  of  us.  Then  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 


1 40  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

"They  will  miss  us,  and  search  for  us,"  says  Johnny, 
waking  up  somewhat  to  a  sense  of  personal  danger. 

"  Will  they?  No  one  knows  where  we  are.  More  of 
Snowball's  doing — she  wouldn't  let  you  tell  Ma'am 
Weesy.  Weesy  will  not  miss  us  until  bedtime — then 
who  is  to  search  ?  She  and  old  Tim  are  alone  on  the 
island,  and  he  can't  leave  the  Light.  If  he  feels  in  the 
humor,  he  may  perhaps  go  to  St.  Gildas  to-morrow,  and 
give  the  alarm.  Then,  by  noon,  some  one  may  be  ready 
to  start  in  the  search,  but  where  are  they  to  look  ?  You 
and  Snowball  go  everywhere,  up  and  down  the  coast  for 
twenty  miles — a  wide  circuit  to  search  over — and  no  one 
will  think  of  Chapeau  Dieu  until  every  other  place  has 
been  given  up.  That  may  not  be  for  days,  and  in  three 
days  papa  will  be  back  home.  How  do  you  suppose  lie 
will  feel?" 

"By  George  !"  says  Johnny,  blankly. 

"I  suppose  we  will  not  starve,"  goes  on  Rene,  still 
bitterly  ;  "  there  are  the  berries  we  came  for,  and  here  is 
a  spring.  And  it  won't  hurt  us  to  sleep  on  the  ground. 
We  can  rough  it.  But  our  father — it  will  about  kill 
him." 

"  And  Snowball,"  says  Johnny,  pitifully,  "poor  little 
Snowball.  She  can't  rough  it.  What  will  become  of 
Snowball  ?" 

"  Nothing  she  does  not  richly  deserve.  Let  us  hope 
it  will  be  a  lesson  to  her — if  she — we — any  of  us  leave 
this  mountain  alive.  It  is  her  doing  from  first  to  last. 
Let  her  take  the  consequences !  I,  for  one,  don't  pity 
her." 

"  Poor  little  Snowball,"  repeats  Johnny,  softly.  He 
never  argues,  but  he  is  not  easily  convinced.  Even  the 
loss  of  Boule-de-neige  is  forgotten,  in  this  new  state  of 
things.  '•  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  Snowball." 

"You  are  an  idiot,  Johnny!"  savagely;  "think  of 
yourself." 

"  Well— I  do.     I  can't  help  thinking  of  her,  though, 


CHAPEAU    DIEU.  141 

too.  Poor  little  thing,  how  is  she  to  sleep  on  the  turf? 
And  she  is  not  strong.  And  she  never  meant  any  harm. 
Don't  be  so  hard,  old  fellow." 

The  gentle  sea-gray  eyes  look  wistfully  up — the  brown, 
bright,  angry  eyes  look  down.  "  Have  a  little  pity,"  the 
gray  eyes  say.  And  "You're  a  good  fellow,  Johnny," 
the  brown  eyes  answer.  They  soften  as  they  turn  away. 
"It's  an  awful  fix,  though!"  he  mutters,  and  looks  sea- 
ward again,  and  begins  to  whistle. 

There  is  a  stifled  sob  behind,  but  neither  hear  it 
Then,  like  a  guilty  thing,  Snowball  creeps  away.  It  is 
not  her  wont  to  advance  unheard — she  can  make  noise 
enough  at  any  time  for  a  dozen — but  the  turf  has  muffled 
her  steps,  and  raspberries  have  stopped  her  mouth.  And 
she  has  come  upon  them,  unfelt,  unseen,  and  overheard 
all.  All !  Rene's  scathing  words,  Johnny's  regretful 
pleading.  An  awful  panic  of  remorse  falls  upon  her. 
The  whole  situation  as  exposed  by  Rene  opens  before 
her,  and  it  is  all  her  doing — hers — her  willfulness,  ob- 
stinacy, selfishness,  from  first  to  last !  They  may  perish 
here.  And  Dr.  Macdonald  will  break  his  heart.  And 
she  is  the  cause  of  it  all  !  She  would  come,  she  would 
land  at  Needle's  Point,  where  no  boat  could  be  safely 
moored;  she  would  call  to  Johnny  to  hurry!  Rene  is 
right — it  is  all  her  fault,  from  beginning  to  end. 

She  flings  herself  on  the  ground,  and  buries  her 
wicked  face  in  the  grass.  All  the  misdeeds  of  her  life — 
neither  few  nor  far  between — rise  up  before  her  in  re- 
morseful array,  but  pale  into  insignificance  before  this 
crowning  crime.  She  lies  prone,  bedewing  the  dry  ferns 
with  her  despairing  tears,  and  so,  half  an  hour  after, 
when  he  quits  his  brother,  Johnny  finds  her.  He  looks 
at  her  ruefully  and  uncomfortably — even  at  fourteen  he 
has  a  genuine  masculine  horror  of  crying — and  touches 
her  up  gently  with  the  toe  of  his  shoe. 

"  I  say,"  he  says,  with  an  attempt  at  gruffness,  "  stop 
that,  will  you  !" 


i4»  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

Two  lovely,  blue,  shining  eyes  look  up  at  him,  pathetic 
with  heart-broken  despair. 

"  Oh,  Johnny  !"  she  cries  out  in  anguished  tones. 

Johnny  has  nothing  to  say  to  this  ;  indeed,  the  situa- 
tion quite  goes  without  saying.  He  stands  gnawing  a 
raspberry  branch,  and  looking  still  more  uncomfortable. 
But  Snowball  must  talk  —  if  death  were  the  penalty 
Snowball  would  talk  ;  talking  is  her  forte,  and  she  has 
been  silent  now  for  over  an  hour.  So  she  sits  up,  wipes 
her  eyes,  sobs  a  last  sob,  and  looks  at  him  solemnly. 

"Johnny!" 

"Yes." 

"  This  is  awful,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Pretty  awful,"  dismally  ;  "  the  batteau's  gone." 

"  Never  mind  ;  she  won't  go  far — somebody  will  pick 
her  up.  Every  one  knows  the  Boule-de-neige.  She's  all 
right.  Johnny !" 

"  Yes." 

"  Rene  feels  awfully,  don't  he  ?" 

"  Pretty  awfully.     So  do  I." 

"  But  it  isn't  so  bad  as  he  makes  out.  If  there  is  any 
chance  of  seeing  the  blackest  side  of  things  " — the  innate 
spirit  of  contrariety  rising  at  the  bare  mention  of  Rene's 
name — "  he  is  sure  to  see  it.  It  isn't  half  so  bad." 

'<!  hope  not,  I'm  sure,"  still  dismally;  "it's  bad 
enough,  I  reckon.  We've  got  tQ  stay  here  all  night. 
What  do  you  call  that?" 

"Oh! — one  night — that  makes  nothing!"  loftily. 
**  And  we  will  be  taken  off  to-morrow.  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  I  wish  I  was,  by  George  !  I  ain't,  though.  And 
papa  will  be  home  in  a  day  or  two.  That  is  what  Rene 
— both  of  us — feel  bad  about." 

"And  don't  you  think  /  do  ?"  indignantly — "would,  I 
mean,  only  I  am  certain  we  will  be  safe  home  long  before 
he  comes.  Now  look  here.  Ma'am  Weesy  will  miss  us, 
won't  she,  and  be  so  scared  she  won't  be  able  to  sleep  a 
wink  all  night  1" 


CHAPEAU    DIE U.  143 

"  I  dare  say." 

"  Then  to-morrow  morning,  the  first  thing,  she  will 
rout  out  old  Tim,  and  make  him  row  her  over  to  St.  Gil- 
das.  Do  you  know  who  will  be  the  first  person  she  will 
50  to  see  there  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"You  might,  then,  if  you  ever  thought  at  all.  She 
will  go  to  Pere  Louis.  She  goes  to  him  first  in  every 
worry  she  has.  And  you  know  what  he  is.  Old  Tim  may 
take  it  easy,  and  let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet,  but 
Fere  Louis  won't.  He'll  never  rest  until  we're  found." 

"By  George  !"  says  Johnny,  brightening. 

"  He'll  move  heaven  and  earth  to  find  us,"  pursues 
Snowball,  more  and  more  excited,  "and  there  isn't  a 
man  in  St.  Gildas  isn't  ready  to  fly,  if  Pere  Louis  but 
holds  up  his  finger.  You  know  that.  And  besides " 

"  Well  ?" 

"  I  told  Innocente  Desereaux  only  yesterday  we  were 
coming  to  Chapeau  Dieu  for  raspberries  this  week.  I 
wanted  her  to  come,  but  she  couldn't,  Rene  says.  It 
shows  all  he  knows  about  it  !"  resentfully.  "  They'll 
never  think  of  Chapeau  Dieu  !  Don't  you  suppose  Inno 
will  hear  of  our  being  missing,  and  will  tell  what  I  said  ? 
And  then  won't  they  come  straight  here  and  take  us  off  ? 
Rene  indeed  !  he  thinks  he  knows  everything  !  He  isn't 
so  much  wiser  than  other  people,  after  all,  in  spite  of 
his  big  books  !" 

"  You  had  better  go  and  tell  him  so,"  says  Johnny, 
with  a  grimace  of  delight. 

He  has  quite  come  over  to  Snowball's  view  of  the 
question,  and  his  spirits  rise  proportionately. 

"I  would  in  a  minute,"  retorts  Snowball,  with  fine 
defiance. 

She  does  not,  howevet  ;  she  glances  over  at  him,  and 
her  courage,  like  Bob  Acres',  oozes  out  at  the  palms  of 
her  hands.  Truth  to  tell,  he  does  look  rather  unap- 
proachable, standing  slim,  and  straight,  and  dark,  with 


i44  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

folded  arms,  his  back  against  a  rock,  his  pale,  rather 
stern  face  set  seaward. 

"  How  will  you  stow  yourself  for  the  night  ?"  asks 
Johnny,  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  anywhere — it  doesn't  matter.  I  will  lie  under 
those  bushes  on  the  moss — it  is  soft  and  dry.  Besides,  I 
don't  expect  to  sleep.  Johnny,  if  Rene  wasn't  so 
grumpy,  I  would  enjoy  this." 

"  Would  you,  by  George  ?" 

"  And  you,"  says  Snowball,  with  some  resentment, 
"if  I've  heard  you  say  once  I've  heard  you  ten  hundred 
thousand  times  say  you  envied  Robinson  Crusoe — that 
you  would  fairly  love  to  be  wrecked  on  a  desert  island. 
And  now — isn't  this  as  good  as  any  desert  island,  only 
we'll  get  taken  off  sooner,  and  you  don't  look  pleased 
one  bit !  You  look  as  sulky  as  sulky." 

"  It's  not  half  as  good  as  Crusoe's  island,"  says 
Johnny ;  "  we  have  nothing  to  eat  but  raspberries,  and 
a  fellow  gets  tired  of  raspberries  as  a  steady  diet.  He 
had  goats,  and  grapes,  and  Friday " 

"He  didn't  eat  Friday.  I,"  smiling  radiantly,  "will 
be  your  Friday,  Johnny." 

"  And  savages " 

"  Rene  will  do  for  the  savages.  And  talking  of  eat- 
ing"— briskly — "we  have  enough  left  in  the  basket  for 
supper.  Suppose  we  have  supper,  Johnny?  It  must 
be  six  o'clock,  and  eating  will  be  better  than  doing 
nothing." 

"  All  right,"  responds  Johnny,  who  is  always  open  to 
anything  in  this  line ;  "  fix  things,  and  I'll  go  and  tell 
Rene." 

He  tells  Rene  all  Snowball  has  told  him,  ending  with 
a  fraternal  invitation  as  sent  by  that  young  person  to 
come  to  supper. 

"Tell  her  to  eat  it  herself,"  says  Rene,  shortly,  "I 
don't  want  any  of  her  supper.  And  you  had  better  not 
take  much  either,  Johnny ;  pick  berries  if  you  are 


CHAPE  A  U    DIEU.  145 

hungry.     Snowball  may  be  glad  of  the  leavings  of  her 
luncheon  before  we  get  off  yet." 

"  Why  ?     Don't  you  believe  what  she  says  !" 

"  I  believe  she  believes  it.  I  have  not  much  faith  in 
Snowball's  rosy  predictions." 

"  But  it  seems  likely  enough,"  says  the  perplexed 
Johnny.  Pere  Louis  will  search  for  us  high  and  low, 
and " 

"Ay,  if  Pere  Louis  is  at  home.  Half  the  time,  as 
you  know,  he  is  away  on  missions  in  the  outlying 
parishes.  And  July  and  August  are  his  mission  months. 
I  am  positive  he  is  not  in  town." 

Johnny  stands  blankly,  his  new-born  hopes  knocked 
from  under  him  at  one  fell  blow.  To  Pere  Louis  all 
things  are  possible — wanting  him,  Ma'am  Weesy  and 
old  Tim,  the  light-house  keeper,  are  but  rickety  reeds. 

"  For  which  reason,"  continues  Rene,  the  relentless, 
"you  had  better  tell  Snowball  to  keep  the  contents  of 
the  basket  for  herself.  /  want  none  of  it,  at  least." 

The  dusk  face,  fine  as  a  cameo,  looks  at  this  moment 
as  if  cut  in  adamant.  Snowball  glancing  across,  thinks 
she  has  never  before  seen  Rene  look  so  hatefully  cross. 

There  is  a  long  pause  ;  the  brothers  stand  and  gaze 
far  and  vainly  over  the  sea,  Johnny  with  the  old  patient, 
wistful  light  in  his  most  beautiful  eyes,  Rene  with 
knitted  brows,  and  dark,  stern,  resolute  gaze. 

"  It's  an  awful  go  !"  says  Johnny,  at  last,  under  his 
breath.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so  tremendously  hard 
on  Snowball,  though  She  couldn't  help  it.  It  isn't  fair, 
by  Geoige  !  You  make  the  poor  little  thing  feel  miser- 
able, Rene.  She  was  crying  her  eyes  out  a  little  while 
ago." 

"  Let  her  cry !"  savagely. 

"She  heard  every  word  you  said." 

"Let  her  hear!     Too  much  of  her  own  way  will  be 
the  ruin  of  that  girl.     She  is  spoiled  by  over-indulgence. 
You  all  pet  her — I  shall  not." 
7 


i46  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

"No,"  says  Johnny,  turning  away,  "you  will  never 
spoil  anybody  in  that  way,  I  think.  What  a  fellow  you 
are,  Rene — as  hard  as  nails." 

With  which  he  goes  back,  with  lagging  steps,  his 
newly-lit  hopes  ruthlessly  snuffed  out.  He  feels  himself 
a  sort  of  shuttlecock  between  these  two  belligerent  bat- 
tledoors,  and  would  lose  his  temper  if  he  knew  how. 
Fortunately,  John  Macdonaldout  of  temper  is  a  sight  no 
mortal  eye  has  ever  yet  seen — so  he  only  looks  a  trifle 
blank  and  rueful,  as  he  returns  to  Snowball  now. 

"Well,"  that  small  maiden  demands,  imperiously,  "he 
wouldn't  come  ?" 

"  No,"  slowly,  "  he  wouldn't  come." 

"  Of  course  he  wouldn't  !"  in  a  rising  key  ;  "  it's  ex- 
actly like  him.  I  think  if  Rene  ever  does  a  good-natured 
thing  the  novelty  will  be  the  death  of  him.  Now,  why 
wouldn't  he  <:ome  ?" 

"Oh — he  says  he's  not  hungry.  He  says  to  eat  it 
yourself.  Now,  Snowball,  don't  nag — I've  had  enough  of 
it — let  a  fellow  have  some  peace,  can't  you.  /  haven't 
done  anything." 

"  What  else  does  he  say  ?"  with  pursed-up  lips  and 
brightening  eyes. 

"  He  says  that  Pere  Louis  is  away  on  missions,  and 
may  not  be  home  when  Weesy  gets  there.  He  says  you'll 
be  hungry  enough  to  want  that  cake  you're  crumbling 
all  to  pieces,  maybe,  before  you  get  another." 

"  Have  one,  Johnny  ?"  says  Snowball,  politely,  tendei 
ing  one  of  those  confections. 

But  Johnny  shakes  his  head  gloomily,  and  declines. 

"  Keep  it  for  yourself.  He  won't  touch  anything  but 
berries,  he  says — no  more  will  I.  Eat  it  yourself— or 
better  still,  keep  it  for  your  breakfast  to-morrow." 

Without  a  word,  mademoiselle  puts  back  cakes,  pie, 
sandwiches,  etcetera,  in  the  basket,  covers  these  provi- 
sions with  exaggerated  care,  then  sits  down  a  little  way 
off,  her  sailor  hat  tilted  well  over  her  nose,  her  hands 


CHAPE  A  U    DIEU.  147 

folded  in  her  lap.  So  she  sits  for  a  long  titne,  Johnny 
extended  in  a  melancholy  attitude  on  the  grass  near  by. 
So  long  she  sits  indeed,  that  his  suspicions  are  awakened  ; 
he  rises  on  his  elbow  and  peers  under  the  hat.  Big,  silent 
tears  are  raining  down — big,  clear,  globular  drops,  chas- 
ing each  other,  and  falling  almost  with  a  plash! — they 
look  large  enough — on  the  folded  hands. 

"  Hallo  !"  cries  Master  John,  taken  aback,  "you  ain't 
at  it  again,  are  you.  What  is  there  to  cry  for  now  ?" 

Silence — deeper  sobs — bigger  tears. 

"Say — can't  you,"  fretfully.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't. 
You  never  used  to  be  a  cry-baby,  Snowball.  Stop  it, 
can't  you.  What's  the  matter  now?" 

"  Johnny  !"  a  great  sob.     "  Jo-ohn-ny  !"  another. 

"  Yes,"  says  Johnny,  "  all  right.     What  ?" 

"  Jo-ohnny  I — I  hate  Rene  !" 

The  vindictive  emphasis  with  which  this  is  brought 
out,  staggers  pacific  Johnny.  There  is  a  pause. 

"  Oh !  I  say.  You  mustn't,  you  know.  Not  that 
there  is  any  love  lost,"  sotto  voce. 

"  I — I,"  increase  of  sobbing,  "I  always  did  hate  him. 
I  always  shall.  I  \vould  like  to  get  a  boat,  and  go  away, 
and  leave  him  here  forever,  and  ever,  and  ever !" 

"  By  George  !"  And  then,  all  at  once,  Johnny  throws 
himself  back  on  the  furze,  and  laughs  long  and  loudly. 

"  So,"  he  gasps,  "  it  is  crying  with  rage  you  are,  after 
all.  Wasn't  it  Dr.  Johnson  who  liked  a  good  hater  ?  He 
ought  to  have  known  Snowuall  Macdonald." 

"  My  name  isn't  Macdonald  ;  I  wouldn't  have  a  name 
he  " — ferociously  pointing — "  has  !  If  ever  I  get  off  this 
horrid,  abominable  place,  Johnny,  do  you  know  what  1 
mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Not  at  present,"  returns  Johnny,  who  is  immensel) 
amused.  "  Something  tremendous,  I  guess.  What  ?" 

u  I  mean  to  write  to  Mr.  Farrar,  Monsieur  Paul,  to 
come  and  take  me  away.  I  belong  to  him — he  brought 
me  here.  I  wish  he  hadn't  now.  Anywhere  would  be 


i48  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

better  than  where  he  is.  And  I'll  go  away,  and  I'll  newr, 
NEVER,  NEVER  speak  to  Rene  again  !" 

All  this  is,  as  the  reader  must  know,  long  anterior  to 
the  days  of  "  Pinafore,"  else  Johnny  might  have  asked 
just  here,  with  his  customary  grin,  "  What,  never?"  And 
Snowball,  with  a  relenting  inflection,  might  have  safely 
responded,  "Well,  hardly  ever,"  and  so  truthfully  ex- 
pressed her  feelings ;  for,  having  reached  this  powerful 
climax,  and  gotten  to  the  very  tip-top  of  the  mountain 
of  her  indignation,  she  proceeds,  with  great  rapidity  and 
compunction,  to  come  down. 

"  Not  that  I  wouldn't  be  dreadfully  sorry  to  leave 
papa,  and  you,  Johnny,  and  even  old  Weesy  and  Tim — 
and  Pere  Louis,  and  Mere  Maddelena,  and  Sceur  Ignatia, 
and  Innocente  Desereaux,  and " 

"  Oh,  hold  on  !"  cries  Johnny.  "  That  list  won't  end 
until  midnight  if  you  name  all  the  people  you  know. 
Besides,  it  will  be  all  no  use — you  will  only  waste  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  a  stamp  for  nothing.  Monsieur  Paul  will 
not  take  you." 

"Why  won't  he?"  But  she  asks  it  as  if  the  assurance 
were  rather  a  relief. 

"  Because  you  don't  belong  to  him — not  really,  you 
know.  In  point  of  fact,  old  girl,"  says  Johnny,  smiling 
sweetly  upon  her,  "you  don't  seem  to  belong  to  any  one. 
I  guess  you  sprung  up  one  night  somewhere,  all  by  your- 
self, like  a  mushroom." 

"  I  must  belong  to  the  people  who  pay  for  me,"  says 
Snowball,  rather  crestfallen,  "  whoever  they  are." 

"Yes  —  whoever  they  are!  I  should  admire  to 
know.  So  would  you,  I  dare  say.  Papa  doesn't — Mr. 
Farrar  may,  but  he  doesn't  tell — only  you  don't  belong 
to  him,  and  he  won't  take  you  away.  You're  a  fixture 
for  life  on  Isle  Perdrix,  like  old  Tim  and  the  light- 
house. When  Weesy  dies — she  can't  go  on  living  for- 
ever— and  I  grow  up  and  get  rich,  and  am  captain  of  a 
ship,  I'll  take  you  with  me  as  cook.  You  ain't  half  a 


CHAPEAU    DIEU.  149 

bad  cook,  Snowball — your  apple-dumplings  are  'things 
to  dream  of.'  I  wish  I  had  a  few  now." 

"Are  you  hungry,  Johnny?"  eagerly.  "If  you  are " 

Her  hand  is  in  the  basket  in  a  moment. 

"I'm  not  hungry  for  anything  you  have  there.  No, 
thanks,  I  won't  take  it.  You  will  keep  all  that  for  your- 
self, as  Rene  says." 

"Johnny," — in  a  drooping  voice — "please  don't  men- 
tion Rene.  I  can't  bear  the  sound  of  his  name.  Oh, 
dear  me  !" — a  deep,  deep,  deep  sigh—"  I  don't  see  why 
some  people  ever  were  born  !" 

"  What  shall  I  be  at  fifty, 

Should  nature  keep  me  alive, 
If  I  find  the  world  so  weary 
When  I  am  but  twenty-five  ?" 

chants  Johnny,  and  laughs.  It  is  a  physical  impossibil- 
ity for  this  boy  to  remain  despondent.  After  a  fashion, 
he  is  trying  to  enjoy  being  shipwrecked  on  the  top  of 
this  big,  bare  mountain.  Rene  glances  round  in  wonder 
at  the  singing  and  laughing. 

"  Would  anything  make  these  two  serious  for  five 
minutes  ?"  he  thinks,  with  a  contemptuous  shrug. 
"Singing!  and  they  may  never  leave  this  hideous  desert 
alive." 

"  Let  us  sing  some  more,"  says  Snowball,  waking  up 
promptly  to  badness.  "  Rene  looks  as  if  he  didn't  like 
it.  Let  us  sing — let  us  sing  the  evening  hymn." 

"Pious  thought — let  us,"  laughs  Johnny.  And  so  to 
aggravate  further  the  dark  and  silent  M.  Rene,  these  two 
uplift  their  fresh  young  voices,  and  send  them  in  unison 
over  the  darkening  waters. 

"  Ave  Sanctissima  t 
We  lift  our  souls  to  thee, 

Ora  pro  nobis^ 
'Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea ! 

Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 
Far  o'er  the  water  spread  ; 

Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh—- 
Thine, '.oo,  hath  bled." 


ISO  CHAPEA'U    DIEU. 

Snowball  glances  at  her  foe.  He  stands  and  makes 
no  sign,  and  his  dark  thoughtful  face  is  turned  away.  A 
little  pang  of  remorse  begins  to  shoot  through  her,  but 
she  finishes  her  hymn. 

"  Ora,  pro  nobis, 
The  waves  must  rock  our  sleep ; 

Ora,  Mater,  ora, 
Star  of  the  deep  !" 

"'Tis  nightfall  on  the  sea."  It  is  indeed  nightfall 
now.  The  sun  has  dipped  long  since  into  the  waters  of 
Bay  Chalette,  and  gone  down — the  long,  star-lit  northern 
twilight  is  paling  to  dull  drab.  The  evening  wind  comes 
to  them  with  all  the  chill  of  the  wide  Atlantic  in  its  salt 
breath. 

"And  you  have  no  wrap,"  says  Johnny,  compassion- 
ately. Snowball  has  shivered  involuntarily  in  her  thin 
dress,  and  he  sees  it.  He  is  in  blue  flanel  himself,  and  is 
the  best  provided  of  the  three,  Rene  being  clad  in  white 
linen,  which  he  greatly  affects  in  summer  time. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Snowball  answers.  "Never 
mind  me." 

But  her  voice  sounds  weary,  and  she  leans  spirit- 
lessly enough  against  the  rough  bole  of  a  big  tamarack. 

"  Suppose  you  lie  down,  and  take  a  nap,"  suggests 
Johnny,  "it  will  rest  you,  and  it's  of  no  use  sitting  up. 
We're  in  for  it  to-night,  anyhow — better  luck  to-morrow. 
I'll  fix  you  a  bed  before  it  gets  any  darker." 

But  there  is  nothing  much  to  "  fix,"  as  he  finds.  There 
is  only  the  dry,  rough  furze,  and  long  marsh  grass  and 
hard  penitential  branches  of  spruce  and  cedar.  With 
these  he  does  the  best  he  can  ;  he  piles  up  the  furze, 
strews  it  with  the  long  tough  grass,  twists  the  little 
spruce  branches  into  a  sort  of  arbor,  and  the  best  he  can 
do  is  done. 

"  There  you  are,"  he  says,  "  there's  a  bed  and  board 
for  you.  Rosamond's  Bower — Boffin's  Bower — not  to  be 
named  in  the  same  day.  Turn  in,  and  don't  open  your 


CHAPEAU    DIEU.  151 

peepers  till  to-morrow  morning.  Let  us  hope  it  will  be 
your  Jast,  as  well  as  your  first  night,  camping  out.  I'll 
go  and  shake  up  Rene,  before  he  is  transmogrified  into 
the  rock  against  which  he  has  leaned  so  long.  Good- 
night, young  'un  !" 

"  Good-night,  Johnny,"  responds  Snowball  falter- 
ingly. 

She  is  afraid,  but  she  would  die  rather  than  say  so. 
Afraid  of  snakes,  of  bears,  of  ghosts,  of  the  wind  in  the 
tree-tops,  the  sound  of  the  sea,  the  awful  silence,  and 
loneliness,  and  majesty  of  night. 

She  creeps  into  her  bower,  but  sits  peering  out — such 
a  pale,  anxious,  pretty  little  face,  in  the  dim  starlight. 

She  can  see  the  boys  standing  together,  and  still  ever 
gazing  over  the  bay. 

"  Will  Rene  ever  stir  ?"  she  thinks.  "  He  looks  as  if 
he  could  stand  there  forever.  And  how  cross  he  did 
look.  I — wish — I — hadn't  made  Rene  mad  !" 

The  admission  comes  reluctantly — even  in  her  own 
mind,  but  having  made  it,  she  is  disposed  to  descend  to 
still  deeper  depths  of  the  valley  of  humiliation. 

"  It  is  all  my  fault — Rene  is  right — it  is  always  my 
fault  !  I  must  be  horrid.  I  wonder  everybody  don't 
hate  me  as  well  as  him.  Maybe  they  do,  only  they  don't 
like  to  show  it.  Yes,  I  always  do  want  my  own  way,  and 
make  a  time  if  I  don't  get  it.  I  give  Johnny  no  peace 
of  his  life.  I  fight  with  Rene  from  morning  till  night. 
And  I  don't  belong  to  anybody — I  suppose  I  am  too  hate- 
ful even  for  that !  I  wonder  why  I  ever  was  born — I 
wonder  if  I  will  always  be  horrid  as  long  as  I  live !  I 
wonder,"  draggingly,  "if — Rene — would  forgive  me,  if 
— I  begged  his  pardon,  and  promised  never  to  do  it  any 
more  ?' ' 

The  "  it  "  is  rather  vague,  but  in  Snowball's  penitent 
mind,  it  stands  for  all  the  enormities  of  her  life,  too 
many  to  be  particularized,  so  she  "  lumps  "  them  !  The 


i52  CHAPEAU    DIEU. 

brothers  meantime  stand,  with  that  seaward  gaze,  that 
takes  in  the  blue  black  world  of  waters. 

The  night  wind  sighs  around  them,  the  surf  laps,  with 
a  hoarse,  ceaseless  moan  and  wash,  over  the  sunken  surf, 
far  below.  Rene  is  very  pale  in  the  light  of  the  stars. 

"You  look  used  up  already,  old  chap,"  Johnny  says; 
"take  a  snooze,  why  don't  you,  and  forget  it.  It's  no  use 
fretting.  Sorrow  may  abide  for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh 
with  the  morning  !  Something  like  that  was  Pere  Louis' 
text  last  Sunday.  It  fits  in  now,  I  think — make  a  medi- 
tation on  it,  old  man,  and  cheer  up  !" 

"  If  we  get  off  before 'our  father  comes  home  I  shall 
not  care,"  returns  Rene,  moodily ;  "  it  is  that  that  worries 
me,  Johnny !" 

"  Oh  !  we  will — never  fear.  We  are  sure  to  get  off 
to-morrow — something  tells  me  so.  Don't  cross  your 
bridges  before  you  come  to  them.  Turn  in  like  a  good 
fellow,  and  let  us  try  to  forget  it.  I'm  as  sleepy  as  the 
duse !" 

A  great  yawn  indorses  the  statement.  Rene  glances 
behind  him. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  Snowball  ?" 

"  Rigg6^  ber  UP  as  well  as  I  was  able.  Twisted  some 
boughs  to  break  the  wind,  and  gathered  moss  and  grass 
for  a  bed.  It's  the  best  I  could  do." 

"  Has  she  had  anything  to  eat  ?" 

"Wouldn't  eat  anything  when  you  wouldn't,"  says 
Johnny,  maliciously  ;  "  nearly  cried  her  eyes  out  into  the 
bargain.  Feels  pretty  badly,  let  me  tell  you,  about  the 
way  you  take  it.  Now  don't  say  again  serves  her  right ! 
It  doesn't." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  say  it.  She  must  not  be  foolish, 
however;  if  she  wants  to  be  friends  with  me  she  must 
eat  what  there  is  left  to-morrcw  morning.  We  boys  are 
responsible  for  her.  We  must  take  care  of  her  to — to  the 
last." 

"  That  means  until  we  are  taken  off  !     Of  course  we 


CHAPEAU    DIBU.  153 

will,"  says  hopeful  Johnny  ;  "  now  let  us  turn  in  and  go 
to  sleep." 

"Turn  in — where?" 

"Oh,  anywhere.  You  pays  your  money,  and  you 
takes  your  choice.  All  the  beds  in  the  '  hotel  de  la  belle 
ttoile'  are  at  our  service.  Here  is  mine.  A  detnain j 
good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  responds  Rene,  and  looks  at  his  brother 
almost  in  envy. 

Johnny  has  thrown  himself  down  just  where  he  stood, 
and  in  less  than  a  minute  seems  to  be  sound  asleep.  But 
it  is  a  long  time  before  Rene  follows  ;  he  sits  there  be- 
side his  big  rock,  his  face  still  faithfully  turned  seaward, 
his  head  resting  against  its  mossy  side,  his  eyes  closed. 

The  night  is  far  advanced  ;  it  is  long  past  midnight, 
indeed,  and  he  is  half  asleep,  half  awake,  when  a  light 
chill  touch  falls  on  his  hand,  and  awakes  him  with  a 
great  nervous  start.  A  slim  figure,  with  loosely  blowing 
hair,  pale,  pleading  face  and  pathetic  eyes  stands  by  his 
side. 

"Rene!" — a  pause — "Rene!"  tremulously.  "Dear 
Rene  !  forgive  me." 

"  Snowball  !  You  !  I  thought  you  were  asleep  hours 
ago." 

"  I  could  not  sleep,  Rene  !  I  am  sorry !" — a  sup- 
pressed sob.  "I  know  I'm  horrid.  I  don't  wonder  you 
hate  me.  It  does  serve  me  right.  Nothing  is  too  bad  to 
happen  to  me  !  It's  all  my  fault.  I — I — I'm  awfully 
sorry,  Rene !" 

"  Snowball " 

"  I  want  you  to  forgive  me,"  in  a  sobbing  whisper, 
"  Oh  !  Rene,  don't  be  mad  !  I — I — can't  help  being  hate- 
ful, but  I'll  try.  Oh  !  I  mean  to  try  ever  so  hard  after 
this.  I'll  never  contradict  you  again  !  I'll  do  every- 
thing you  say  !  Only  I  can't  bear  you  to  be  angry  with 
me  "  (great  sobbing  here,  sternly  repressed,  for  slumber- 
ing Johnny's  sake).  "Oh  !  Rene,  forgive  me !" 

7* 


iS4  CHAPEAU    DIEU 

"  Snowball !  you  dear  little  soul !" 

And  all  in  a  moment,  obdurate  Rene  melts,  and  puts  his 
arms  around  her,  and  gives  her  a  hearty,  forgiving,  frater- 
nal smack — the  first  kiss  he  had  ever  favored  her  with,  in 
his  life.  Perhaps  the  hour,  the  scene,  the  loneliness,  have 
something  to  do  with  it.  It  opens  the  full  floodgates  of 
Snowball's  tears ;  she  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  cries  on  his  shoulder,  until  that  portion  of  his  rai- 
ment is  quite  damp  through.  Conducts  herself  gen- 
erally, in  short,  for  the  space  of  five  minutes,  like  a 
juvenile  Niobe.  Then  she  recovers.  Rene  has  had 
enough  of  it,  and  rather  lifts  his  lovely  burden  off  his 
neck. 

"There,  now,  Snowball,  don't  cry  any  more;  it's  all 
right ;  I'm  not  angry.  I  don't  know  that  it  was  your 
fault,  much,  after  all.  Go  back,  and  try  to  sleep.  You'll 
be  fit  for  nothing  to-morrow,  if  you  spend  the  night  cry- 
ing like  this." 

And  thus  in  the  "dead  waste  and  middle  of  the 
night,"  peace  is  proclaimed,  and  next  morning,  to  his 
great  amazement,  Johnny  finds  the  twain  he  has  left  mor- 
tal foes  the  night  before,  excellent  friends  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  is  puzzled,  but  thankful,  and  accepts  the  fact 
without  too  many  questions.  Only  Snowball  nearly  has 
a  relapse  when  she  finds  neither  of  the  boys  will  touch 
the  hoarded  remains  of  the  basket,  and  propose  to  sus- 
tain existence  on  berries. 

"  Then  the  things  may  go  uneaten  !"  she  is  beginning 
vehemently,  "  7  shan't  touch  them  !" 

Rene  looks  at  her. 

"Is  this  your  promise  of  last  night?"  the  severe 
young  eyes  demand.  And  mademoiselle's  head  droops, 
and  her  hand  goes  into  the  basket,  and  she  swallows  a 
lump  in  her  throat,  and — the  last  of  the  sandwiches. 

The  morning  is  fine — promises  to  equal  yesterday  in 
sunshine  and  warmth,  and  keeps  its  promise.  But  it  is 
a  long  day — a  long,  long,  weary  day.  They  lie  about 


FOUR    DAYS.  155 

listlessly,  pick  berries,  talk  in  a  perfunctory  fashion  ; 
even  Snowball's  fine  flow  of  tittle-tattle  flags.  Rene 
reads  ;  Johnny  tries  to  rig  a  fishing-line  and  catch  some- 
thing, but  fails,  He  reclines  at  Snowball's  feet  mostly, 
and  lets  her  tell  him  stories — sea  stories,  if  she  knows 
any.  All  her  life  she  has  been  an  omnivorous  reader 
devouring  everything  that  has  come  in  her  way.  Hei 
repertoire,  therefore,  is  considerable.  She  sings  to  him, 
too.  Johnny  always  likes  to  hear  her  sing.  She  feels  it 
a  point  of  honor  to  keep  her  boys'  spirits  up.  It  is  all 
her  fault,  but  they  are  here  ;  that  fact  keeps  well  upper- 
most in  her  mind,  and  she  does  her  poor  little  best.  It 
is  easy  enough  with  Johnny,  who  is  cheery  and  sanguine 
by  nature  ;  but  Rene  looks  so  pale,  so  troubled,  sits  so 
silent,  so  grave,  it  is  depressing  only  to  look  at  him. 

The  long  day  wears  on.  Afternoon  comes,  and  even- 
ing, and  night,  and  still  no  boat,  no  rescue.  Still  noth- 
ing but  the  hollow,  monotonous  moan  of  the  sea,  the 
whistling  of  the  wind,  the  whispering  of  the  branches, 
the  white  flash  of  a  sea-gull's  wing,  the  circling  swoop 
of  a  fish-hawk — and  far  off,  far,  far  off,  white  sails,  that 
never  draw  near. 

The  stars  shine  out,  a  little,  slim  new  moon  cuts 
sharply  and  cleanly  the  blue  waste  of  sky,  and  a  second 
night  nuds  these  castaway  mariners  high  and  dry  on  top 
of  Chapeau  Dieu. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

FOUR  DAYS. 

N OTHER  night,  another  dawn,  another  day — 
night,  a  third  time,  and  still  the  lost  ones  are 
lost  in  the  wild  mountain  side  ! 

With  the  breaking  of  the  third  day,  there 
breaks,  also,  the  fine  weather  that  up  to  this  time  has 


156  FOUR    DAYS. 

served  them.  This  third  day  dawns  with  a  coppery  sky, 
a  lurid,  angry-looking  sun  rises  redly  over  the  water,  a 
dead  calm  holds  land  and  sea  locked  in  an  ominous  hush. 
The  heat  is  intolerable.  A  sultry  cloud  rises  slowly,  and 
gathers  and  enlarges,  grows  and  advances,  and  slowly, 
surely,  the  whole  red  sky  glooms  over.  The  surf  breaks 
down  below,  in  a  dull,  threatening  whisper,  there  are  fit- 
ful soughs  of  wind,  from  every  quarter  of  the  compass, 
it  seems,  at  once.  Sea-birds  whirl  and  scream,  white 
sails,  hull  down  on  the  horizon,  furl  and  vanish,  the  sky 
lowers,  until  its  dark  pall  seems  to  rest  on  the  mountain 
top.  All  nature  is  gathering  her  forces  to  hurl  out,  and 
meet  the  coming  storm. 

These  three  weary  days  have  brought  little  change 
that  can  be  written  down,  to  the  hapless  trio  left  stranded. 
They  have  dawned  and  darkened,  and  between  morning 
and  night  nothing  more  exciting  than  raspberry  picking 
and  reading  Shakespeare  have  gone  on.  Nothing  can 
possibly  happen  here ;  no  boats  approach,  there  are  no 
wild  animals,  no  reptiles  more  deadly  than  garter  snakes 
and  grasshoppers,  no  savages,  no  anything  !  And  they 
dare  not  leave  where  they  are  ;  it  is  the  one  spot  accessible 
on  all  the  mountain  ;  the  rest  is  a  howling,  untrodden, 
inaccessible  wilderness. 

The  most  important  event  has  been  the  improvement 
and  enlargement  of  Snowball's  bower.  From  that  inex- 
haustible receptacle,  a  boy's  pocket,  Johnny  has  exhumed 
a  ball  of  string  and  half  a  dozen  nails.  With  these  he 
and  Rene  have  widened  and  tightened  the  bower,  twisted 
more  supple  branches,  until  the  little  shelter  is  compara- 
tively strong,  and  prepared  to  keep  out  bleak  night 
blasts,  and  even  withstand  a  tolerably  strong  gale.  It 
stands  with  its  back  to  a  great  bowlder,  the  north  wind 
thus  cut  off,  and  the  branches  closely  enough  locked  to 
exclude  at  all  times  the  rays  of  the  fierce  sea- side  sun. 
Here  Snowball  has  already  learned  to  sleep  on  her  turfy 
bed  as  deeply  and  soundly  as  ever  in  the  little  white  cot 


FOUR    DAYS.  157 

at  home.  There  is  room  enough  in  the  bower  for  her  to 
lie  at  full  length,  but  decidedly  none  for  superfluous 
turning  round,  or  standing  up.  She  crawls  in  on  her 
hands  and  knees,  and  backs  out — as  people  do  from  the 
presence  of  royalty — but  always  on  all  fours.  Here,  too, 
the  boys,  who  remain  alternately  on  the  lookout  at  night, 
take  turns  during  the  day,  to  woo  balmy  slumber.  And 
there  is  nothing  else  to  be  done.  No  fishing,  snaring, 
shooting — nothing  but  to  pick  the  everlasting  raspberry, 
of  which  their  souls  long  since  wearied,  and  lie  on  the 
furze,  and  gaze  with  longing,  haggard  eyes  over  the  piti- 
less sea.  Sails  come  and  go,  but  always  afar  off.  They 
have  hoisted  their  handkerchiefs  on  trees,  they  light  fires 
during  the  day  on  the  hill-side — all  in  vain.  They  dare 
not  burn  beacons  at  night,  lest  vessels  should  mistake 
the  signal  for  Dree  Island  Light,  and  so  be  lured  on  the 
fatal  reefs.  And  it  is  the  afternoon  of  this  third  day,  and 
rescue  cometh  not. 

They  rest  in  different  positions  on  the  grass,  all  silent 
and  sad,  and  watch,  with  vague  fear,  the  rising  storm. 
It  promises  to  be  a  very  violent  one — a  tempest  of  thun- 
der and  lightning — a  tornado  of  wind  and  rain — a  swift 
summer  cyclone,  dealing  death  and  destruction  upon 
land  and  sea. 

"  And  Snowball  is  so  afraid  of  lightning  and  thunder," 
thinks  Rene,  "and  the  bower,  that  we  have  tried  so  hard 
to  rig  up  for  her — will  it  stand  five  minutes  in  the  teeth 
of  this  rising  gale?" 

His  languid  gaze  turns  to\vhere  Snowball  lies,  prone, 
and  listless,  and  mute,  and  pale,  with  closed  eyes,  her 
fair  head  pillowed  on  one  wasted  arm.  Yes,  wasted,  al- 
though the  remains  of  the  luncheon  and  the  chief  share 
of  the  raspberries  have  been  hers.  She  has  passionately 
protested  and  appealed  for  an  equal  division,  but  Rene, 
the  inflexible,  has  not  yielded  a  jot. 

"  You  will  take  what  we  give  you  ;  do  as  I  tell  you, 
or  we  will  never  be  friends  again  !"  he  says,  in  his  most 


x58  FOUR    DAYS. 

obstinate  voice,  and  she  has  sobbed  and  succumbed. 
But  he  is  very  good  to  her  in  all  else,  very  gentle,  sur- 
prisingly tender,  amazingly  yielding — altogether  unlike 
the  self-willed,  domineering  Rene  she  has  hitherto 
known.  No  other  quarrel  has  followed  that  memorable 
reconciliation;  she  maybe  fretful  and  irritable  at  times 
— she  is  indeed — but  his  patience  with  her  never  flags. 
Johnny  himself  is  not  sweeter  of  temper,  in  these  disas- 
trous days.  But  it  is  an  unnatural  state  of  goodness  on 
both  sides,  not  in  the  least  likely  to  last,  if  they  only  get 
off  with  life,  but  Rene  has  made  up  his  mind  it  shall  last 
during  their  stay  on  Chapeau  Dieu,  and  Rene's  resolu- 
tions are  as  those  of  the  Mede  and  the  Persian.  His 
Shakespeare  is  as  a  diamond  mine  to  them  all.  The  vol- 
ume contains  four  of  the  tragedies,  and  Rene,  a  fine 
reader,  both  of  English  and  French,  reads  aloud  to  them, 
and  never  tires.  He  dips,  too,  into  the  depths  of  his 
memory  and  brings  forth  such  store  of  anecdote,  story, 
fable,  poetry — Victor  Hugo's  and  Beranger's,  mostly — 
that  his  two  hearers  can  only  listen  in  gratitude  and  ad- 
miration, and  wonder  if  this  most  entertaining  compan- 
ion can  be  the  silent  and  somewhat  grim  Rene  they  have 
hitherto  had  the  honor  of  knowing. 

"  I  never  would  have  thought  you  had  it  in  you," 
Snowball  says  to  him,  with  that  charming  candor,  which 
is  a  distinguishing  character  of  thejr  intimacy.  "  No  one 
would.  You  always  seemed  to  me  about  as  silent  and 
stupid  as  a  white  owl.  Didn't  he  to  you,  Johnny?  I 
dare  say  he  may  grow  up  to  be  quite  a  credit  to  us  yet — 
mightn't  he,  Johnny  ?" 

"  He  won't  grow  up  much  if  he  has  to  spend  three 
more  days  on  Chapeau  Dieu,"  responds  Johnny,  lan- 
guidly. "He  doesn't  look  good  for  over  twenty-four 
more  hours  of  it.  You  don't  eat  enough,  Rene,  old  boy. 
You  keep  all  you  pick  for  Sn — I  mean  you  are  slowly 
starving.  Let  me  go  and  gather  you  a  cupful  of  ber- 
ries." 


FOUR    DAYS.  159 

He  makes  a  weary  motion  to  rise — truth  to  tell,  he — 
they  all — are  almost  too  weak  to  stir.  The  raspberries 
are  not  so  very  plentiful,  and  an  utter  distaste  for  their 
insipid  sweetness  has  seized  them  all.  Rene  looks  de- 
cidedly the  worst.  His  dark?  thin  face,  pale  at  all  times, 
is  blanched  to  a  dull,  clayey  hue — its  outline  against  the 
darkening  sky  has  the  shrunk,  pinched  look  that  only 
starving  gives.  He  is  worn  with  anxiety ;  he  hardly 
sleeps  ;  he  gives,  as  Johnny  says,  the  lion's  share  of  all 
the  fruit  he  gathers  to  Snowball,  and  compels  her  to  take 
it.  His  great  dark  eyes  look  hollow,  and  twice  their 
natural  size — they  shine  with  a  dry,  feverish  glitter  not 
well  to  see.  But  the  light  that  looks  out  of  them  now, 
on  his  brother,  is  very  sweet. 

"  Never  mind  me,  mon  ami,  I  am  all  right.  I  haven't 
much  flesh  to  lose,  you  know,  and  we  black  people  show 
this  sort  of  thing  soonest.  Look  out  for  yourself.  If  I 
can  take  you  and  Snowball  back  in  tolerable  condition, 
nothing  else  matters." 

Then  there  is  silence  again  ;  they  are  too  weak,  too 
spent,  too  thoroughly  worn  out  and  spiritless  in  mind 
and  body  to  care  for  talking.  And  Rene's  voice  is  past 
reading.  It  is  husky  and  broken,  and  pretty  well  gone. 
With  a  tired  sigh  Johnny  relapses  on  his  hillock,  his 
brown,  curly  head  clasped  in  his  laced  fingers,  his  blue, 
gentle  eyes  wandering  aimlessly  over  the  bay. 

He  never  complains,  never  is  cross,  never  wishes, 
audibly,  even  for  rescue.  His  face  has  a  dull,  slow,  pa- 
tient look  of  pain  and  waiting.  He  is  consumed  with 
grinding  hunger  and  filled  with  dire  forebodings.  For 
raspberries  are  giving  out,  and,  after  another  day  or  two, 
if  help  does  not  come 

He  never  gets  further.  A  fellow  can  die  but  once, 
lie  says  to  himself,  with  forlorn  philosophy.  Only  this 
is  such  slow  dying.  And  then  there  is  papa — always 
there  is  papa — back  by  now,  and  frantic  with  fear  and 


160  FOUR    DAYS. 

grief.     At  this  point  Johnny's  face  goes  down  on  the  turf, 
and  he  lies  very  still  for  a  long  time. 

"  Johnny  is  sleeping,"  Snowball  will  say  to  herself,  in 
a  loud  whisper,  and  keep  very  close  to  her  boy,  and 
ward  off  gnats  and  bees,  with  a  cedar  branch. 

For  her,  surprising  to  relate,  she  keeps  up  the  best  of 
the  three,  is  cross  and  fractious  at  times,  and  full  of  loud 
complaints — on  the  hardship  of  things  in  general,  and 
the  stupidity  of  old  Tim,  and  Ma'am  Weesy,  and  all  St. 
Gildas,  in  particular. 

Perhaps  this  natural  mental  vent  has  something  to  do 
with  her  superior  physical  endurance  ;  but  then  she  is  a 
girl,  and  needs  less,  and  the  slender  frame  is  wonder- 
fully vigorous  and  healthful. 

Still  more,  she  has  double  rations  of  berries,  although 
she  does  not  know  it.  She  eats  what  she  picks  herself, 
and,  as  has  been  said,  the  larger  share  of  Rene's.  If  she 
refuses,  Rene's  great,  dark,  lustrous,  solemn,  severe  eyes, 
transfix  her. 

"  You  promised,"  he  says,  and  the  resolute  young  lips 
set. 

And  then  Snowball  knows  she  has  found  her  master, 
and  meekly  yields. 

"  But  if  ever  I  get  off  this  horrid  place,"  she  says,  in 
protest  to  Johnny,  "  this  sort  of  thing  will  come  to  an 
end,  let  me  tell  you.  Rene  may  think  he  is  going  to  ty- 
rannize over  me  like  this  all  his  life  !  Just  you  wait 
until  we  are  back  home  and  you  will  see." 

"  I  will,"  groans  Johnny  ;  "  I  wish  I  was  back  to  see 
now.  I  sometimes  think,  Snowball " 

"  Well  ?" 

"That  " — in  a  low  tone — "  we  will  never  go  back  !" 

"Oh,  Johnny  !" 

"  This  is  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day.  Papa  must 
have  come  back  yesterday.  Snowball,  think  of  papa  !" 

"Oh,  Johnny!  dear,  old  Johnny!"  a  great  sob,  "1 
do." 


FOUR    DAYS.  161 

"  A  storm  is  rising — look  at  that  sky.  We  have  act 
had  a  storm  for  over  two  weeks — it  will  be  all  the  worse 
when  it  comes.  You  know  what  storms  are  on  this 
coast.  It  may  last  for  days." 

"Yes,"  sobs  Snowball,  in  despair. 

"No  boat  can  put  off  to  come  to  us  while  it  lasts, 
even  if  they  knew  where  we  were.  No  boat  could  land 
even  at  Sugar  Scoop,  except  in  calm  weather.  The  surf 
all  along  the  base  of  Chapeau  Dieu  is  something  that  re- 
quires to  be  seen  to  be  believed  in." 

Snowball  is  sobbing,  with  her  face  in  her  lap. 

The  sound  arouses  Rene,  who  is  lying  in  a  sort  of  tor- 
por, but  is  neither  sleeping  nor  waking,  and  he  looks 
angry  at  his  brother. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  he  says  ;  "why  do  you  make 
her  cry  ?  What  are  you  telling  her  ?" 

"Nothing much,"  says  Johnny,  surprised  at  his  own 
performance.  "I  didn't  mean  to  make  her  cry;  I  was 
saying  a  storm  is  rising — a  bad  one — and  no  boat  can 
come  until  it  is  over.  I  say,  Snowball,  hold  up." 

But  Snowball,  weak,  frightened,  hungry,  sobs  on. 

"You  need  not  tell  her  such  things — time  enough  for 
trouble  when  it  comes,  Snowball  !"  Rene  cries  out,  and 
his  voice  is  sharp  with  nervous  pain,  "don't.  It  hurts  me 
to  hear  you.  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  says,  under  his  breath, 
"help  us — help  her!  Do  not  leave  us  here  to  die  !" 

Then,  with  the  prayer  still  on  his  lips,  he  sinks  back, 
loo  weary  even  to  sit  upright,  and  seems  to  sleep.  Rene 
is  in  a  very  bad  way — indeed,  is  the  worst  case  of  the 
three,  and  somehow  the  knowledge  comes  home  to  Snow- 
ball, and  stills  her  tears. 

She  looks  at  him — if  Rene,  their  mainstay,  fails,  what 
is  to  become  of  them.  As  she  looks,  a  smile  crosses  his 
Avorn,  pallid  face — Rene  has  a  very  sweet  smile,  the  more 
sweet  for  being  rare. 

"  Give  it  to  her,"  he  says  ;  "we  don't  want  it,  Johnny. 
For  me.  I  will  have  coffee,  I  think." 


162  FOUR    DAYS. 

"  Oh,  hear  him !"  Snowball  says,  her  ready  tears 
streaming  again.  "He  is  dreaming  of  home  and  some- 
thing to  eat.  And  look  at  his  face — like  death.  He  is 
starving,  Johnny.  Oh,  Johnny,  it  breaks  my  heart." 

Johnny  says  nothing,  he  has  nothing  to  say.  He 
turns  away,  that  he  may  not  see  his  brother's  face,  and 
watches  the  rapidly  rising  storm. 

"  Here  it  is  !"  he  cries  out. 

A  great  drop  of  rain  falls  from  the  sullen  sky  and 
flashes  in  his  upturned  face,  then  another,  and  another. 
There  is  a  profound  hush,  nature  seems  to  hold  her 
breath  for  a  second,  then  in  its  might  the  swift  summer 
tempest  is  upon  them.  The  lightning  leaps  out  like  a 
fiery  sword,  a  terrific  clap  of  thunder  shakes  the  sky  and 
sea.  The  bay  wrinkles  for  a  moment  in  an  awful  way  ; 
it  crouches  before  the  fury  of  the  wind  ;  and  then  the 
hurricane  sweeps  down  upon  them  like  a  giant  let  loose. 
Flash  after  flash  cuts  the  sky  asunder,  peal  after  peal 
shakes  the  mighty  mountain  to  its  base,  the  blast  roars 
down  from  the  summit  with  hoarse  bellowing ;  the  sea 
answers  back  with  deep  and  hollow  echo.  Spruce  and 
cedar  saplings  are  torn  up  with  one  fierce  rush,  and 
whirled  out  to  sea.  The  bower  went  hurling  at  the  first 
stroke  of  the  tornado,  torn  wildly  into  shreds. 

Rene  grasps  his  rock,  his  hat  blown  into  space  in  the 
first  gust,  and  clings  for  his  life,  his  thin  clothes  drenched 
through  in  a  moment. 

Johnny  and  Snowball  are  together  ;  Snowball,  with  a 
shriek,  has  flung  her  arms  about  him  at  the  first  flash  of 
lightning,  and  so  clings,  her  face  hidden  on  his  shoulder, 
her  long,  light  hair  streaming  in  the  gale. 

Johnny  holds  her  hand  ;  he  can  feel  her  quiver  from 
head  to  foot  at  each  flash,  at  each  clap — except  for  that 
she  is  still. 

So  they  crouch,  beaten  down,  soaked  through,  breath- 
less atoms,  in  the  mad  hurly-burly  of  wind,  and  light- 
ning, and  rain.  Darkness  has  fallen,  too,  swift,  dense — 


FOUR    DAYS.  163 

they  can  hardly  see  each  other's  faces,  though  but  a  few 
yards  apart. 

It  lasts  for  nearly  an  hour — a  lifetime  it  seems  to 
them.  Then  slowly,  as  if  with  reluctance,  to  see  the  evil 
it  has  wrought,  the  dark  clouds  light,  the  sky  brightens, 
the  thunder  rumbles  off  into  space,  the  wind  lulls,  the 
lain  ceases.  Only  the  sea,  like  some  sullen  monster, 
slow  to  wrath,  is  slow  also  to  forgive,  keeps  up  its  dull 
bellowing,  and  breaks,  and  beetles,  and  thunders  in  huge 
great  breakers  over  the  sunken  reefs,  and  up  against  the 
granite  sides  of  Chapeau  Dieu. 

But  they  can  breathe  once  more,  and  Snowball  lifts 
her  head,  with  all  its  dripping  flaxen  hair ;  and  three 
white  young  faces — blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  brown  eyes — 
look  into  each  other,  in  awful  hush.  There  is  nothing  to 
be  said,  nothing  to  be  done  ;  they  are  wet  to  the  skin  ; 
the  breath  is  nearly  beaten  out  of  their  bodies  ;  the  surf 
may  roll  heavily  for  days  around  the  mountain  ;  no  help 
can  come  now — and  the  last  of  the  raspberries  have  been 
beaten  off  the  bushes  and  washed  into  pulp  by  the  fury 
of  the  storm.  It  is  the  crowning  disaster  of  all. 

"  So  be  it !"  Rene  says  at  last,  aloud,  as  if  in  answer 
to  their  thought — "  we  can  but  die  !" 

"It  was  death  before,"  Johnny  responds,  "and  no 
fellow  can  die  more  than  once." 

"  Snowball,"  the  elder  boy  says,  and  rises  slowly,  and 
sits  beside  her,  "you  are  not  afraid,  are  you  ?  Dear  little 
Snowball.  I  am  sorry  ior you!" 

She  makes  no  reply.  She  is  only  conscious  of  being 
very  tired — very,  very  tired.  She  is  not  conscious  of 
being  afraid,  but  Rene  sees  that  nervous  quiver  strike 
through  her  again. 

"  Are  you  cold  ?"  he  asks,  in  his  weak  voice. 

"  No  ;  only  tired.     Let  me  rest — so — Rene,  dear." 

He  holds  her,  and  so  they  sit ;  and  so  night  finds 
them,  when  it  falls.  It  falls  soft  and  star-lit,  but  very 
chill ;  the  clouds  sweep  away  before  the  bright  wind, 


164  FOUR    DAYS. 

and  the  moon  looks  down  on  these  three  forlorn  lost 
children  sitting  helpless  here,  waiting  for  the  end.  For 
hope  has  died  out,  and  it  is  death  now,  they  know — slow, 
dragging  death,  far  from  friends  and  home.  There  is 
nothing  more  that  can  be  done,  or  said,  or  planned  for — 
no  need  of  further  bowers  —  no  strength  left  to  make 
them.  They  only  want  to  keep  close  together,  and  so  let 
death  find  them  when  its  slow  mercy  comes. 

Johnny  lies  on  his  face  on  the  soaked  grass.  Rene 
and  Snowball  rest  against  the  great,  mossy  bowlder,  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  in  stupor,  or  sleep.  Strange,  that 
in  this  supreme  hour,  with  the  end  so  near,  it  is  to  Rene 
she  clings — her  last  hold  on  earth  as  life  slips  away. 
Such  a  feeble  hold !  the  weak  little  arms  have  scarcely 
strength  enough  left  to  clasp  his  neck. 

So  the  night  wears.  The  breeze  blows ;  they  are 
chilled  to  the  marrow  of  their  bones.  All  through  the 
cold,  bright,  pale  hours,  the  surf  thunders  below — their 
lullaby — and  life  wanes  weaker  with  the  deathly  chill 
coming  of  the  new  day.  But  when  the  night  has  passed, 
and  the  stars  paled  and  waned,  and  another  sun  has  risen, 
they  are  still  alive.  Alive — and  but  little  more.  It  is 
with  a  labored,  painful  effort  that  Johnny  gathers  him- 
self together  and  stands  on  his  feet. 

"Try  it,  Snowball,"  he  says,  huskily.  "See  if  you 
can  stand.  Let  us  go  and  look  for — for  berries." 

She  does  as  she  is  told,  but  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 
Yes,  she  can  stand,  can  walk,  but  not  easily,  over  the 
sodden  furze. 

"  Will  you  come,  Rene?"  she  says.  "We  are  going — 
to  look  for — berries." 

Each  word  comes  with  pain,  her  throat  and  lips  are 
swollen  and  dry.  But  starvation  is  stronger  than  weak- 
ness, even  with  Rene,  most  spent  of  the  three,  and  he, 
too,  gets  on  his  feet  in  a  blind  and  giddy  fashion. 

"  Come,"  he  says,  and  holds  out  his  hand. 

She  takes  it,  and  they  totter  on  a  few  steps.     Johnny 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  165 

recovers  first  and  most,  and  manages  to  walk  tolerably 
well  after  a  moment ;  but  it  is  hard  work  for  the  other 
two. 

"  There  is  something — the  matter — with  the  ground," 
Rene  gasps,  giddily.  "It  is  —  going  —  up  and  down, 
Snowball  !" 

He  utters  a  cry.  Earth  and  sky  go  up,  and  come 
down,  and  seem  to  strike  him  with  a  crash  on  the  back 
of  his  head.  With  that  cry  he  reels  forward,  and  falls  at 
her  feet  like  the  dead. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
MONSI  EUR     PAU  L. 

N'  this  is  the  sixth  day,  an'  if  the  Lord  hasn't 
said  it,  it's  dead  they  are  !  It's  maybe  at 
the  bottom  av  the  say  they  are.  I  say  I'm 
sayin'  it's  at  the  bottom  av  the  say  they 
are  !" 

The  speaker  is  old  Tim,  light-house-keeper  of  Dree 
Island,  and  his  audience  are  a  group  of  men,  gathered  in 
the  bar-room  of  the  St.  Gildas  Hotel.  They  listen  with 
anxious  faces,  in  silence,  while  old  Tim  tells  his  tale. 
Old  Tim  is  a  short  man,  of  sixty  or  more,  with  an  ugly, 
surly,  honest,  weather-beaten  face,  crimson  with  much 
Irish  whisky  and  Canadian  sunshine — something  of  an 
oddity  in  his  way.  Old  Tim  never,  by  any  chance,  listens 
to  what  is  said  to  him  by  anybody,  if  he  can  help  it,  so,  judg- 
ing others  subject  to  the  same  infirmity,  he  has  a  habit  of 
raising  his  voice,  as  he  goes  on,  asserting  and  repeating 
himself,  and  so  drowning  all  ill-bred  interruption. 

"It's  that  slip  av  a  gerrel.  The  byes  is  well  enough. 
I'm  not  sayin'  a  word  agen  the  byes.  It's  that  gerrel.  I 


166  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

say  it's  that  gerrel.  The  divil  himself  vvudn't  be  up  to 
her  for  divilment.  She'd  drowned  thim  in  a  minute  for 
pure  divarsion.  It's  that  gerrel.  I  say  I'm  sayin'  it's 
that  slip  av  a  gerrel !" 

"  The  Boule-de-neige  was  picked  up  yesterday  adrift  off 
Point  Tormentine,"  says  one  of  the  listeners.  "This  is 
a  bad  business,  Tim.  Couldn't  you  have  given  the  alarm 
sooner  ?  Six  days  ago !"  the  speaker  whistles  with  up- 
lifted eyebrows. 

"  Is  it  give  the  alarrum  sooner  ?  Sorra  haporth  I've 
done  for  the  last  four  days  but  give  alarrums.  Arrah  ! 
me  very  heart's  bruk  with  the  alarrums  I've  been  givin', 
an'  sorra  a  sowl's  been  alarrumed  about  it,  barrin'  ould 
Wasy  herself,  bad  scran  to  her  !  I  say  me  heart's  bruk 
wid  the  alarrums  I'm  givin'.  Faix,  it's  hardly  a  minute 
I've  left  to  attind  to  the  light.  Alarrums  inagh!  Wisha  ! 
'tis  wishin'  thim  well  I  am  for  alarrums !" 

"  And  Dr.  Macdonald  away  from  home,  too,"  another 
says,  and  looks  blankly  about  him.  "  What  are  we  to 
do?" 

"  Faix  he  is,"  responds  old  Tim  ;  "  an',  more  betoken, 
some  others  is  away  that's  wanted  at  home-.  Father  Looey 
is  away  among  the  Injuns  and  the  Frinch,  bad  cess  to 
thim  !  As  if  craters  like  thim  wanted  the  praste  !  I  say 
Father  Louis  is  away  preachin*  a  station  to  thim  nagers 
av  Injuns.  Av  he  was  to  the  fore  it's  not  the  likes  o'  ye 
I'd  be  thrubblin'  wid  alarrums.  Sure  he'd  do  more  in  a 
minute  thin  the  lot  av  ye  in  a  week.  I  say  I'm  say- 
in' " 

"  Oh  !  confound  you,  Tim  ;  you  needn't  repeat  your 
impertinence.  We  will  do  what  we  can,  no  matter  where 
Pere  Louis  is." 

"I  say  it's  not  to  the  likes  o'  ye,"  repeats  old  Tim, 
raising  his  voice,  and  ignoring  the  interruption,  "  I'd  be 
talkin'  if  Father  Louis  was  to  the  fore.  And  now  here's 
the  Bowld-naigc  picked  up  adrift.  Isn't  that  what  ye're 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  167 

sayin',  ye  beyant  there  ?  An'  where's  them  that  wint  in 
her?  —  tell  me  that." 

They  look  at  one  another,  and  are  silent.  Dr.  Mac- 
donald  is  well  known,  and  better  liked,  by  every  man  of 
them.  They  know  the  boys  too,  and  the  pretty  blonde 
girl  with  the  waving  fair  hair. 

"  It's  a  bad  lookout." 

"  Six  days  missing  !     Mon  Dieu  !  it  is  teriible  !" 

"  Old  Tim  ought  to  be  shot  !" 

"  Who  will  tell  the  doctor  this?" 

"  After  the  storms  of  Thursday  too.  Even  if  they 
land  somewhere  -  " 


"  Ma  foi  !  was  not  the  Baule-de-neige  found,  keel  up, 
three  miles  the  other  side  of  Tormentine?  Make  land! 
The  first  land  they  made,  my  friend,  was  the  bottom." 

"  Poor  children  !  Two  fine  lads  ;  handsome  and 
manly,  and  the  prettiest  little  girl  you  could  see  !  It  is 
a  great  pity." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Yes,"  says  old  Tim,  chiming  in  like  a  Greek  chorus, 
"I'm  sayin'  what's  to  be  done?  It's  not  standin'  here 
like  sticks  o'  salin'  wax  that'll  resky  thim  av  they're 
anywhere.  I'm  sayin'  it's  not  standin'  here  -  " 

He  breaks  off.  There  has  entered  quietly  among 
them  a  stranger,  so  different  in  appearance  from  most  of 
the  men  around  him,  as  to  be  conspicuous  at  a  glance 
A  tall,  dark-bearded,  brown,  traveled-looking  man,  with 
a  stamp  that  is  not  of  St.  Gildas  upon  him,  handsome 
beyond  question,  and  having,  perhaps,  thirty  or  more 
years. 

Old  Tim's  jaw  drops  ;  he  gazes,  and  still  the  wonder 
grows,  his  mouth  agape,  his  small  eyes  opening  wide 
Then  his  wonder  suddenly  bursts  into  vehement  speech. 

"  It's  him  !"  cries  old  Tim.  "  Oh,  that  I  may  niver,  av 
it  isn't  him  !  Munsheer  Paul  !"  he  bustles  aside  all  who 
interpose,  and  grasps  the  new-comer's  hand.  "  Misther 
Farrar,  darlin',  don't  ye  know  me?" 


1 68  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

"Tim,  old  boy!  Yes,  I  know  your  jolly  old  figure- 
head, of  course,"  returns  the  stranger,  laughing,  and  slap- 
ping him  on  the  shoulder.  "Dear  old  chap,  how  are 
you  ?  And  what  is  all  this  I " 

"  An'  it's  back  for  good  an'  all  ye  are,  I  hope,  from 
thim  parts  I'd  not  be  namin'?  Musha,  but  the  ould  doc- 
ther  will  be  as  glad  as  if  somebody  had  left  him  a  ligacy. 
I'm  not  sayin'  they  didn't  agree  wid  ye,  though,  thim 
parts,"  peering  up  at  him  admiringly  ;  "  it's  fine,  an*  big, 
an'  brown  ye  are,  this  minute.  I'm  sayin'  it's  fine,  and 
sthrong,  and  good-lukin'  ye  are,  Misther  Farrar.  An* 
ye're  back  !  Well,  well  !  faix,  they  do  be  sayin'  at  home 
bad  shillins  iver  an'  always  come  back  !" 

"  Think  you,  Tim.     But  the  children— 

"  It's  the  wonderful  rowlin'  stone  ye  are,  if  all  tales 
about  ye  bees  thrue.  An'  ye've  been  livin*  out  there  in 
thim  parts  all  this  time  ?  Sure  there  niver  come  a  batch 
o'  letters  to  the  ould  docther  that  I  didn't  go  up  an'  ax 
for  ye.  '  I've  a  bit  av  a  letther,  Tim,'  sez  he,  'from  thim 
ve  know.'  '  Arrab,  have  ye  ?'  sez  I  ;  'how  is  he  at  all  ?' 
'  Well,  Tim,  glory  be  to  God,  an'  he  does  be  sayin'  he'll 
be  wid  us  soon.'  But,  oh  !  "vvirra,  sure  I  knowed  betther 
thin  to  b'lave  that.  An'  here  ye  are  !  I  say,  I'm  sayin', 
here  ye " 

"  But  these  children,  Tim  ?  For  Heaven's  sake,  never 
mind  me  !  What  of  the  doctor's  boys,  and  my  girl  ?" 

"  An'  your  gerrel  !  'Pon  me  conscience  thin  but  she's 
a  han'ful  av  a  gerrel  ?  It's  all  her  doin's  from " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  Tim  !  but  what  has  she  done  ?  What 
talk  is  this  of  wreck  and  storm,  and  a  boat  accident  ? 
Don't  you  know  I'm  all  at  sea  ?" 

"  Yis,  faith,  an'  there's  more  like  ye.  That's  where 
they  are,  or  may  be  at  the  bottom.  I  say,  that's  where 
t"hey  are  av  the  Lord  hasn't  a  han'  in  thim.  It's  six 
blissid  days  since  an  eye  was  clapt  on  thim,  and  the 
Eowld-naige,  starn  up,  off  the  wildest  point  on  the  coast." 

The  stranger  groans,  and  turns  an  appealing  glance 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  169 

along  the  row  of  faces.     Evidently  he  knows  better  than 
to  try  .onger  to  stem  the  flow  of  Tim's  talk. 

"Tell  me,  some  of  you,"  he  says,  "the  girl  is  mine." 

"  We  are  sorrv,  m'sieur,"  a  small,  brown-faced  man, 
with  gold  ear-rings,  says,  touching  his  cap  ;  "  it  is  all  ver 
bad.  It  is  now  six  days  since  they  have  went  away. 
They  went  in  the  boy's  boat — a  batteau — since  yesterday 
found  adrift  many  miles  down  the  bay.  And,"  with 
quick  compassion,  "  it  is  suppose  they  must  be  lost. 
M'sieur  will  be  good  enough  to  remind  himself  of  the 
storm  of  two  days  since." 

But,  yes  ;  monsieur  remembers,  and  grows  very  pale, 

"And  Dr.  Macdonald  is  away  !"  he  exclaims. 

"  Ah,  m'sieur !  how  that  is  unfortunate.  If  he  had 
been  home  they  would  have  been  discover  since  long 
time.  But  thees  Tim,"  a  shrug,  "  he  say  he  give  the  alarm 
many  time,  but  my  faith  !  no  one  have  hear  until  to-day. 
Ha !  how  that  is  droll !" 

"  I  heard  some  rumor  yesterday,"  another  adds,  "but 
I  paid  no  great  attention.  They  are  often  out  in  the 
little  boat,  and — well,  I  paid  no  attention.  I  suppose 
others  felt  as  I  did — that  they  would  turn  up  all  right." 

"It  is  ver  great  peety,"  says  the  Frenchman;  "we 
will  do  all  our  possib,  but  what  will  you  ?  Six  days  ! 
Mon  Dieu  !" 

It  is,  indeed,  a  blank  prospect.  They  stand  for  a  little, 
silent,  deep  concern  in  every  face. 

"  Have  you  no  idea — has  no  one  any  idea,"  the  new- 
comer, Mr.  Farrar,  asks,  "of  which  direction  they  took? 
They  must  have  had  some  distinct  idea  of  going  some- 
where, when  they  put  off.  Does  Ma'am  Weesy  not  know  ?" 

"  Here  she  is  for  ye,  let  her  spake  for  hersilf,"  says 
Tim.  "  Wasy,  woman,  I'm  sayin',  come  here  a  minute. 
It's  wanted,  ye  are — I  say  it's  wanted  ye  are,  and  by  thim 
as  maybe  ye  thought  was  far  away." 

Ma'am  Weesy,  her  brown  face  one  pucker  of  anxious 
8 


170  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

wnnkles,  all  wild  with  alarm,  and  vague  with  ejacula- 
tions, bustles  in  among  the  men. 

"Look  at  him  now,"  says  Tim,  "there  he  is  forninst 
ye  ;  an'  it's  many  a  long  day  ye'll  luk  among  thim  beg- 
garly spalpeens  av  Frinchmin  afore  ye  see  he's  like  !" 

But  this  last  old  Tim  is  polite  enough  to  add  under 
his  breath,  as  he  points  one  stubby  index  finger  at  the 
last  arrival. 

Ma'am  Weesy  does  look,  in  puzzled  wonder  and  in- 
credulity, perplexity,  recognition,  doubt  in  her  mahogany 
face.  He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  It  is  I,  Ma'am  Weesy,  your  troublesome  boarder  of 
nine  years  ago,  and  back  in  a  very  disastrous  time,  I 
fear." 

"  M.  Paul  !"  the  old  woman  cries  out,  joyfully.  "  Ah, 
how  this  is  well.  Oh,  m'sieu,  I  rejoice  to  welcome  you 
back,  if  one  may  rejoice  in  anything  at  such  a  time.  You 
have  hear  ?" 

"Yes,  I  have  heard.  It  is  a  terrible  thing;  but  per- 
haps you  can  help  us,  if  indeed  it  is  not  too  late  for  all 
help.  Surely  you  know  something  of  where  they  intended 
to  go  ?" 

"  No,  m'sieu,"  with  a  sob,  "  I  do  not.  Ah,  grande  ceil! 
they  went  so  often,  look  you — and  I  fear  not.  What  was 
there  to  fear,  with  Master  Jean  in  the  boat,  that  has  been 
in  a  boat  since  he  could  walk  alone  ?  They  went  all  the 
days — I  never  thought  of  asking.  I  rejoice  to  see  them 
go— me,  wicked  that  I  am — they  so  disarrange  me  at  my 
work.  And  that  day  I  was  glad — glad  they  go,  for  I 
have  great  deal  to  do,  and  mademoiselle,  she  tease  me 
much.  Helas !  no,  M.  Paul,  I  know  not  where  the  dear 
little  ones  may  be.  Only  the  good  God,  He  know." 

"  Where  were  they  most  in  the  habit  of  going  ?" 

"  Everywhere,  m'sieu.  Up  and  down,  here  and  there, 
all  places.  They  go  sometime  to  the  Indian  villages  for 
moccasin,  and  basket,  and  bead-bag,  even.  Everywhere 
they  go — all  places." 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  171 

"And  they  said  nothing,  nothing  at  all?  Tax  your 
memory,  Ma'am  Weesy,  the  least  hint  may  be  of  import- 
ance now." 

Ma'am  Weesy  knits  her  brown  brows,  puckers  her 
mouth,  makes  an  effort,  and  shakes  her  head. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  M.  Paul,  they  said  nothing.  Only 
they  talk  of  raspberries  the  day  before,  perhaps,  who 
know,  they  go  for  raspberry  ?" 

"  And  where  is  the  most  likely  place  for  raspberries  ? 
They  would  naturally  go  where  they  were  most  plentiful. 
Oh,  my  dear  old  woman,  how  could  you  leave  this  matter 
for  six  long  days  ?" 

"  I  did  my  best,"  Ma'am  Weesy  says,  weeping.  "  I 
did  tell  Teem  ;  I  come  to  St.  Gildas  two,  three,  five  time ; 
I  tell  all  I  know.  But  what  will  you,  M.  Paul?  Pere 
Louis  he  is  gone,  M.  le  doctor  he  is  gone,  and  for  the 
rest — bah  !  what  they  care?  They  are  beesy,  it  will  be  all 
right,  they  say,  and  go  their  way  ;  no  one  can  handle  a 
boat  better  than  Master  Jean.  And  now  they  say  to  me 
la  Boule-de-neige  is  found,  and  not  my  children.  And  to- 
morrow M.  le  doctor  will  be  home,  and  me,  how  am  I  to 
face  him  ?  I  promise  him  I  care  for  them,  and  see  how  I 
keep  my  word." 

As  she  sobs  out  the  last  words  there  is  a  bustle  at  the 
door,  and  a  man  enters  hurriedly  and  looks  around. 

"  Have  you  heard,  Desereaux  ?"  some  one  asks. 
"What  is  to  be  done?" 

"  Heard  ?  yes,"  the  new-comer  says,  excitedly.  "  I 
know  where  they  are  !  Where  they  started  to  go  to,  at 
least.  Is  the  doctor  here  ?  Is  he  back  ?" 

"  /  am  here  ;  I  am  concerned  in  this  matter.  You  re- 
member me,  perhaps,  M.  Desereaux  ?  I  am  Paul 
Farrar." 

"  My  dear  M.  Paul  !"  Desereaux  grasps  his  hand, 
"  welcome  back  to  St.  Gildas.  You  have  come  at  a  most 
opportune  time.  We  must  set  off  in  search  of  these  lost 
ones  at  once.  They  are  safe  and  well  still,  I  hope,  in 


172  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

spite  of  the  batteau's  having  slipped  her  moorings.  Mcs 
amis,  they  are  at  Chapeau  Dieu  !" 

A  murmur  of  surprise,  consternation,  relief,  goes 
through  the  group.  "  Chapeau  Dieu !"  all  exclaim. 
"They  are  found,  and  on  Chapeau  Dieu  !" 

"  The  way  I  know  is  this,"  M.  Desereaux  goes  on. 
"Mademoiselle  Snowball  told  my  daughter  Innocente,  at 
the  convent,  the  other  day,  that  she  and  the  boys  pro- 
posed going  to  Chapeau  Dieu  for  raspberries,  and  invited 
her  to  accompany  them.  Inno  could  not,  she  was  going 
on  a  visit  out  of  town  with  me,  and  went.  We  only  re- 
turned to-day ;  that  is  why  she  did  not  hear  and  speak 
sooner.  My  idea  is,  they  went  up  the  mountain,  moored 
the  boat,  and  while  they  were  in  search  of  berries  that 
the  batteau  floated  out  on  the  ebb  tide.  They  might  re- 
main there  a  month,  and  no  one  chance  upon  them,  un- 
less they  went  on  purpose.  The  question  at  present  is, 
how  to  reach  them.  It  will  be  a  most  difficult  matter  to 
effect  a  landing  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  after  the  re- 
cent storm.  Still  we  must  try." 

"  We  must,  most  certainly,"  says  Mr.  Farrar,  "  and 
without  a  moment's  delay.  Landing  is  always  possible, 
even  in  the  heaviest  surf,  at  Sugar  Scoop  Beach.  Men  ! 
who  of  you  will  come  ?  Quick  !" 

There  are  half  a  dozen  volunteers  in  a  moment.  The 
group  disperses  ;  they  hurry  to  the  shore,  and  in  ten 
minutes  a  large  boat  is  launched  and  flying  through  the 
white  caps  to  the  rescue. 

Ma'am  Weesy,  full  of  hope  and  fear,  hastens  home, 
across  the  river,  to  prepare  food,  and  comforts  of  all 
sorts,  for  the  little  lost  ones.  Old  Tim  rows  her  over, 
and  it  is  perhaps  the  first  time  in  all  their  many  years  of 
intercourse  that  they  do  not  quarrel  by  the  way. 

M.  Desereaux  accompanies  Paul  Farrar  in  his  anx- 
ious quest.  The  two  men  talk  little  ;  the  thought  of  the 
children  absorbs  them,  but  Mr.  Farrar  informs  him  that 
this  is  merely  one  of  his  flying  visits  to  his  old  friend; 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  173 

preparatory  to  a  still  more  prolonged  absence  abroad 
He  is  going  yet  further  afield — to  Russia — he  has  re- 
ceived an  appointment  to  St.  Petersburg,  through  the 
good  offices  of  an  influential  friend,  and  will  depart  for 
that  far-off  land  in  a  very  few  weeks.  He  is  tired  of 
Fayal,  and  his  monotonous  existence  there. 

"  I  am,  as  old  Tim  tells  me,  a  rolling  stone,  that  will 
never  gather  much  moss,"  he  says  ;  "but  at  least  I  need 
not  vegetate  forever  in  one  place." 

"How  fast  it  grows  dark!"  M.  Desereaux  exclaims, 
scanning  the  horizon.  "I  wish  we  could  have  daylight 
to  effect  a  landing.  At  least  we  will  have  a  full  moon." 

"  It  is  rising  now,"  Farrar  says.  "  Surely  we  must  be 
within  a  mile  or  so  of  Sugar  Scoop." 

"We  may  search  until  morning  before  finding  them, 
even  if  they  are  on  the  mountain.  It  is  a  wide  circuit, 
my  friend,  and  altogether  impassable  in  places.  And 
this  recent  storm  must  have  used  them  up  badly." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Farrar  says,  with  a  hard  breath, 
"  that  there  is  really  hope  ?  Six  days  on  that  barren  hill- 
side without  shelter  or  food "  He  breaks  off. 

"  Without  shelter,  perhaps,  certainly  not  without  food- 
Raspberries  abound  —  not  very  satisfactory  diet,  but 
equal  to  sustaining  life  for  a  few  days.  And  no  doubt 
they  brought  a  luncheon  basket  with  them — all  do,  who 
are  picnicing  or  berrying  there.  Hope  for  the  best,  mon 
ami.  It  is  true,  we  may  find  them  in  pitiable  plight,  but 
also,  I  feel  sure,  we  shall  find  them  alive." 

"  Heaven  grant  it !  If  we  can  but  get  them  home  be- 
fore the  dear  old  doctor  returns " 

He  interrupts  himself  again,  too  anxious  to  put  his 
thoughts  into  words.  The  daylight  is  rapidly  fading 
out,  and  a  brilliant  night  is  beginning,  moonlit,  star- 
lit, calm.  The  sea  runs  high  ;  they  can  hear,  long  before 
they  approach,  the  thunder  of  the  surf  at  the  base  of 
Chateau  Dieu  ;  but  the  men  who  bend  to  the  oars  with 
such  right  good  will  are  men  who  will  effect  a  landing,* 


i74  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

if  landing  be  within  the  limit  of  possibility.  Sugar 
Scoop,  too,  when  they  reach  it,  seems  fairly  free  of  reefs 
and  rollers.  They  steer  with  care ;  a  great  in-washing 
wave  carries  them  with  it,  up  and  in  on  its  crest.  Two 
of  them  spring  out,  up  to  their  waists  in  the  water,  and 
draw  the  big  boat  high  and  dry  on  the  sands.  The  land- 
ing is  effected. 

"And  no  such  troublesome  matter  after  all,"  remarks 
M.  Desereaux.  "These  fellows  know  their  business — 
they  are  boatmen  born.  Now  to  find  the  children.  Here 
is  the  path,  M.  Farrar — you  have  forgotten,  doubtless,  in 
all  these  years.  Follow  me." 

"  Make  her  fast,  and  come  on,  my  friends,"  Mr.  Farrar 
says.  "  We  will  disperse  in  different  directions,  and 
shout.  If  they  are  here,  and  alive,  we  will  find  them 
surely  in  an  hour." 

"  Ah,  m'sieur,  Chapeau  Dieu  is  a  big  place,"  one  says. 
"  We  will  do  our  best." 

They  secure  the  boat  with  a  chain,  and  file  up  the 
steep  path  after  their  leaders.  It  is  a  path  some  two 
miles  long,  straggling  and  winding,  in  serpentine  fash- 
ion, to  a  green  plateau  on  the  mountain  side. 

Here  they  pause  for  breath,  Silence  is  about  them, 
night  is  around  them — silence  and  night,  broken  only  by 
the  dull  booming  of  the  surf.  So  still  it  is  that  the 
cedars  and  spruces  stand  up  black  and  motionless,  like 
sentinels  guarding  in  grim  array  their  rocky  fortress  over 
the  sea.  And  then  M.  Desereaux  uplifts  his  voice  : 

"  Rene — Snowball — Jean  !  My  children,  answer.  We 
are  here." 

But  only  the  echo  of  his  own  shout  comes  back  to 
him  down  the  rocky  slopes. 

"  Let  us  go  farther  up,"  suggests  Mr.  Farrar.  "  They 
may  be  near  the  summit.  They  may  be  on  the  other 
side." 

"  They  will  have  landed  at  Sugar  Scoop,  surely," 
Desereaux  responds ;  "  there  is  no  other  safe  landing. 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  175 

But,  of  course,  they  went  in  search  of  berries,  and  would 
not  remain  near  the  landing.  The  raspberry  thicket  is 
over  yonder,  let  us  try  it.  Some  of  you.  my  men,  take 
the  other  side." 

So,  they  disperse,  Farrar  and  Desereaux  going  toward 
the  right,  two  men  to  the  left,  two  more  mounting  toward 
the  summit. 

It  is  indescribably  lonely,  and  even  in  the  pallid 
moonlight,  the  wild  sea  sparkling  in  the  white  shimmer, 
the  unutterable  hush  and  solemnity  of  night  overlying 
all. 

They  reach  the  raspberry  thicket  and  pause. 

"Shout  with  me,"  says  M.  Desereaux,  "it  is  possible 
they  may  be  somewhere  near." 

They  shout,  and  shout,  until  they  are  hoarse,  but  only 
the  melancholy  echo  of  their  shouts  come  back. 

Far  up  they  can  hear  the  boatmen  calling,  too,  and 
calling,  also,  in  vain.  A  great  fear  falls  upon  them. 

"  Surely  if  they  were  in  the  mountain  at  all — and  alive 
— they  would  hear,"  Mr.  Farrar  says ;  "  let  us  try  once 
more." 

"  Hush  !"  cries  M.  Desereaux,  clutching  his  arm. 
"  Listen  !  Do  you  hear  nothing  ?  Listen  !" 

They  bend  their  ears,  and — yes — faint,  and  far  off, 
there  comes  to  them  a  cry — a  human  cry. 

"That  is  no  night-hawk,  no  sea-bird  !"  Desereaux  ex- 
claims ;  "  it  is  a  voice  responding  to  our  shout.  Thank 
God  !  Try  it  again." 

Once  more  they  raise  their  voices  and  shout  with 
might  and  main. 

"Rene  !  Snowball !  Johnny  !    Where  are  you  ?   Call !" 

And  once  again,  distinct  though  faint,  that  answering 
cry  comes  back. 

"  They  are  found  !  they  are  found  !"  Desereaux  shouts 
exult  ingly.  "  This  way,  Farrar  ;  this  way,  my  men.  We 
have  them  !  Dieu  merci!  It  is  all  right !" 


1 76  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

He  plunges  in  the  direction  of  the  feeble  cry ;  it 
comes  again,  even  as  they  go,  and  guides  them. 

"  All  right,  my  children  !"  he  calls  cheerily  back,  "  we 
are  coming.  Keep  up  a  good  heart,  poor  little  ones — 
we  will  be  with  you  in  a  moment." 

Once  again  the  weak  cry  answers  back — this  time 
nearer  yet — farther  up  the  mountain  side.  And  before 
it  has  quite  died  away — with  a  great,  glad,  terrified 
shout  the  two  men  are  upon  them,  and  have  each  seized 
one  in  his  arms. 

It  is  Johnny  whom  Mr.  Farrar  has  caught ;  it  is 
Snowball  who  is  in  the  arms  of  M.  Desereaux.  And  the 
two  men  are  holding  them  close,  hard,  joyfully,  and — • 
Johnny  blushes  all  the  rest  of  his  life  to  remember  it,  he 
is  being  absolutely  kissed  by  the  bearded  lips  of  Paul  Far- 
rar. 

"  Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!"  cries  the  excitable  Cana 
dian,  "how  am  I  rejoiced  !  Snowball,  ma  petite — my  an- 
gel— how  is  it  with  you  ?" 

"Put  me  down,"  answers  a  weak — oh,  such  a  poor, 
little,  weak  voice — but  faintly  imperious  still.  "  Put  me 
down,  please,  at  once.  I  must — hold — Rene." 

"  Ah,  Rene  ! — where  is  Rene  ?    What — what — what — 

M.  Desereaux  pauses  in  consternation.  She  has  slipped 
out  of  his  arms,  and  down  on  the  ground  again,  and 
lifted  back  into  her  lap  the  head  of  Rene.  So  she  was 
sitting  when  they  found  her,  so  she  had  been  sitting  for 
hours,  waiting  for  death — thus — Rene  in  her  lap. 

Mr.  Farrar  lets  go  Johnny,  and  is  kneeling  beside  the 
prostrate  boy.  One  glance  only  he  gives  to  Snowball, 
reclining  against  a  knoll,  too  far  gone  to  support  herself, 
Rene's  dark  head  lying  on  her  knees.  She  does  not  look 
at  him  ;  she  seems  past  care,  past  hope,  past  help  ;  she 
sits,  her  mournful  eyes  never  leaving  Rene's  deathlike 
face. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  Desereaux  asks,  "  not " 


MONSIEUR    PAUL.  177 

"No,"  with  a  quick  breath,  "  I  think  not — I  hope  not 
— something  terribly  like  it,  though.  He  has  swooned 
through  exhaustion,  I  take  it.  He  is  very  far  gone.  You 
will  carry  him  to  the  boat,  my  good  fellows — we  will 
carry  them  all.  None  of  these  children  tan  walk. 
Snowball,  my  little  one,  come  to  me — give  us  Rene.  I 
will  carry  you.  Come." 

He  gathers  her  in  his  arms — a  light  weight — a  feathei 
weight  now.  She  makes  no  resistance  ;  she  lets  Rene 
go  ;  her  head  drops  helplessly  on  his  shoulder  ;  her  eyes 
close.  The  men  come  after  with  the  two  boys,  and 
Johnny,  even  in  this  supreme  hour,  is  conscious  of  the 
indignity  of  being  carried  like  a  baby,  and  makes  a  feeble 
effort  to  assert  himself,  and  his  legs.  It  is  of  no  use, 
however,  he  is  unable  to  walk,  and  gives  up,  after  a  few 
yards,  with  the  very  worst  possible  grace.  For  Rene,  he 
lies  like  one  dead. 

They  reach  the  boat,  get  the  young  people  in,  and 
proceed  to  administer  weak  brandy  and  water.  The 
stimulant  acts  well  with  Johnny,  who  sits  up,  after  a 
swallow  or  two,  and  begins  to  fully  comprehend  what  is 
taking  place.  They  are  being  rescued — a  fact  that  only 
clearly  dawns  upon  him  now. 

Snowball,  too,  revives  somewhat,  but  she  will  look  at 
no  one,  care  for  nothing,  save  Rene. 

"We  will  do,"  she  whispers;  "give — something — to 
him.  Make  Rene — open — his  eyes." 

Easier  said  than  done.  All  that  is  possible  to  do,  Mr. 
Farrar  does,  the  stimulant  is  placed  between  his  locked 
teeth,  his  hands  and  face  are  bathed  and  chafed,  but  the 
rigid  lips  remain  closed,  the  dark  eyes  remain  shut,  the 
hands  and  face  icy  cold — the  ghastly  hue  of  death  leaves 
not. 

"Can  you  talk,  Johnny?  Don't  try  if  it  hurts  you. 
How  is  it  that  we  find  Rene  so  much  worse  than  you 
two  ?"  asks  Paul  Farrar. 

Johnny  tries  to  tell.  "  Rene  starved  himself  to  feed 
8* 


178  MONSIEUR    PAUL. 

Snowball ;  never  slept  at  all,  hardly ;  was  thinly  clad, 
and  so,  and  so " 

"Succumbed  first  —  yes,  I  see.  Brave  boy  —  good 
Rene  '  And  he  is  not  as  strong  as  you,  Johnny — never 
will  be.  But  don't  wear  that  frightened  face,  dear  boy, 
we  will  bring  him  round  yet.  Once  in  Ma'am  Weesy's 
kitchen,  with  warm  blankets  and  hot  grog,  we  will  have 
Rene  back,  please  Heaven,  and  able  to  talk  to  your  father 
when  he  returns  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  all  about  it." 

Johnny  utters  a  cry. 

"  Papa  not  home  yet?" 

"Not  home  yet,  old  boy — for  which  let  us  be  duly 
thankful.  Think  what  a  story  you  will  have  to  tell  him 
to-morrow  after  dinner  —  after  dinner,  Johnny  !  You 
haven't  dined  lately,  have  you  ?  What  a  story  it  will  be 
for  the  rest  of  your  life — six  days  and  nights  in  Chapeau 
Dieu  !  Why,  you  will  awake  and  find  yourself  famous — 
find  greatness  thrust  upon  you  !  For  Snowball,  here, 
she  will  be  the  most  pronounced  heroine  of  modern 
times." 

But  Snowball  cares  not,  heeds  not,  hears  not.  Rene 
lies  there,  lifeless,  and  rescue  or  death — what  are  either 
now? 

They  talk  no  more ;  Johnny,  with  the  best  will  in  the 
world,  finds  the  effort  too  painful,  and  he  lies  back  and 
drops  asleep.  He  is  only  wakened  to  find  himself  in 
some  one's  arms  a  second  time,  and  being  carried  some- 
where, wakes  for  a  moment,  then  is  heavily  off  again. 
Presently  he  is  lying  on  something  soft  and  warm,  and 
some  one  is  crying  over  him  and  kissing  him — Ma'am 
Weesy,  he  dimly  thinks,  and  even  in  this  state  of  coma, 
is  sleepily  conscious  of  feeling  cross  about  it,  and  wish- 
ing she  wouldn't.  Then,  something  strong,  and  sweet, 
and  delicious,  is  given  him  in  a  spoon,  beef-tea,  maybe  ; 
then  sleep  once  more,  sleep  long,  blessed,  deep,  life-giv- 
ing, and  it  is  high  noon  of  another  day  before  he  opens 
his  eyes  again  on  this  world  of  woe. 


SNOWBALL'S    HERO.  179 

CHAPTER  XV. 
SNOWBALL'S  HERO. 

IGH  noon.  A  sunny,  breezy,  July  day — hop 
vines  and  scarlet  runners  fluttering  outside 
the  muslin  curtains  of  the  open  window,  a 
sweet,  salt,  strong  sea-wind  coming  in,  and 
it  is  his  own  iron  bed  in  which  he  lies,  his  own  attic 
room  in  which  he  rests — it  is  Isle  Perdrix — it  is  home — it 
is  Weesy  whose  shrill  tones  he  hears  down-stairs,  and  it 
is — it  is  his  father,  whose  face  bends  above  him,  as  he 
awakes. 

"  Papa  !"  he  cries  out. 

Two  thin  arms  uplift,  a  great  sob  chokes  him,  then 
there  is  a  long,  long,  long  silence. 

"  My  boy  !  my  boy  !  my  Johnny  !"  Dr.  Macdonald 
says,  and  then  there  is  silence  again. 

But  Johnny  recovers,  and  his  first  distinct  thought  is 
— that  he  is  awfully  hungry !  His  hollow,  but  always 
beautiful  eyes,  look  at  his  father,  then,  around  the  room. 

"Papa." 

"  My  son." 

"  I  want  something  to  eat." 

Dr.  Macdonald  laughs,  but  a  trifle  huskily.  Instantly 
a  china  bowl  and  a  silver  spoon  are  in  Johnny's  hands. 

"What  is  this,  pana?" 

"  Weesy's  very  best,  very  strongest  broth.  Eat  and 
fear  not.  A  chicken  is  preparing,  Johnny — such  a  fine, 
fat  fellow — all  for  you  !  You  shall  have  a  breast  and  a 
liver  wing  in  an  hour.  And  a  glass  of  such  old  port  as 
you  never  tasted  !" 

Johnny  rolls  his  eyes  up  in  one  rapturous  glance,  but 
pauses  not  for  idle  speech.  There  is  no  time.  All  at 
once  he  pauses. 


i8o  SNOWBALDS    HERO. 

"Oh-h!  papa -Rene!" 

"  Is  doing  well,  thanks  to  the  good  God  and  the  un- 
tiring care  of  ray  good  Paul  Farrar.  1  have  but  this 
moment  left  his  bedside.  I  am  now  going  back.  You 
can  spare  me,  my  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,"  briskly  re-attacking  the  bowl,  "  I  can 
spare  you." 

Silence  again  for  a  space — the  bowl  very  near  the 
bottom  by  this  time,  and  Dr.  Macdonald,  smiling  down 
on  his  son.  Johnny  looks  up. 

"  And  Snowball,  papa  ?" 

"  Very  well — very  well,  I  am  happy  to  say.  My  sweet 
little  Snowball  !  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  how  can  we  ever  be 
thankful  enough  ?" 

No  response  from  Johnny — the  spoon  and  the  bottom 
of  the  bowl  clinking  by  this  time. 

"  Rene  will  not  be  ill  ?" 

"We  do  not  know — we  hope  not.  He  speaks  little — 
he  is  too  far  spent,  but  he  takes  what  we  give  him,  and 
sleeps  a  great  deal.  In  that,  and  in  his  youth,  we  hope. 
If  Heaven  had  not  sent  Paul  Farrar,  and  my  very  good 
friend,  M.  Desereaux,  last  night,  Rene  would  never  have 
seen  morning." 

Dr.  Macdonald's  voice  breaks — he  turns  and  walks  to 
the  window.  He  is  a  tall,  stooping,  gentle-looking  old 
man,  with  silvery  hair,  and  beard,  and  face,  and  eyes  soft, 
gray,  and  wistful,  exactly  like  Johnny's. 

"  Rene  is  a  brick,  papa,"  cries  Johnny,  warmly  ;  "  an 
out-and-out  trump  !  You  would  not  think  he  had  it  in 
him.  He  starved  himself  to  look  after  Snowball ;  he 
told  us  stories,  he  read  to  us  while  he  could  speak.  Papa, 
may  I  get  up  ?" 

"  If  you  feel  able,  my  son  ;  but  I  would  advise " 

"Oh  !  I  feel  ail  right — a  giant  refreshed.  I  can't  lie 
here,  you  know,  like  a  mollycoddle,  and  have  Ma'am 

Weesy  coming  in  and "  "  Kissing  me  every  minute," 

is  his  disgusted  thought,  but  he  restrains  it.  "  Please 


SNOWBALL'S    HERO.  i&i 

may  I  get  up,  papa,  and  go  down  ?    I'll  be  as  careful  of 
myself  as  if  I  were  eggs." 

His  father  smiles. 

"  Very  well,  my  lad  ;  dress  and  go  down.  Take  your 
time  about  it,  Johnny.  M.  Paul  will  come  to  you  and 
amuse  you." 

"Papa,  may  I — I  should  like  to  see  Snowball?" 

"  Presently,  laddie,  presently  ;  let  her  sleep.  She  will 
be  down,  I  think,  before  night." 

"And  Rene " 

"  Ah  !  Rene — who  knows  ?  he  will  not  be  down.  You 
may  see  him  to-morrow.  We  shall  have  to  take  great 
care  of  Rene.  I  am  going  to  him  now." 

Dr.  Macdonald  goes,  and  Johnny,  very  gingerly,  and 
with  many  pauses,  and  a  surprising  sense  of  weakness, 
proceeds  to  dress  himself  and  travel  down-stairs. 

It  is  rather  more  like  a  ghost  of  Johnny,  than  that 
brisk  young  gentleman  himself,  this  wan  lad,  with  the 
hollow  eyes  and  pallid  face. 

Weesy  shrieks  with  delight  at  sight  of  him,  and 
makes  a  rush  to  clasp  him  precipitately  to  her  breast,  but 
Johnny  jumps  behind  a  table,  with  unexpected  rapidity 
and  alarm. 

"No,  you  don't!"  he  says;  "keep  off!  I've  had 
enough  of  that.  First,  some  brute  with  whiskers,  last 
night,  and  then  you,  and  now  again — but  you  sha'n't  if 
I  die  for  it.  Let  a  fellow  alone,  can't  you,  Weesy?" 

And  Weesy  laughs,  and  cries,  and  yields.  The  mis- 
fortunes of  her  children  have  covered,  for  the  time,  their 
multitude  of  sins. 

Johnny  sits  by  the  breezy  window,  and  looks  out  over 
the  little  rocky  garden,  the  rough  path  beyond,  the  beach 
below,  the  sea  spreading  away  into  the  sky,  and  sighs  a 
sigh  of  infinite  content. 

One  might  fancy  he  had  had  enough  of  the  sea,  but 
not  so.  John  Macdonald  will  never  have  enough  of  the 
bright,  watery  world  he  loves.  If  only  the  Bvuk-dc-ncige 


1 82  SNOWBALDS    HERO. 

— but  he  must  not  think  of  her — there  may  be  other  bat- 
teaux  in  time. 

He  is  at  home — they  are  all  safe  ;  that  is  enough  for 
one  day.  And  presently  comes  Ma'am  Weesy,  with  the 
chicken  and  wine,  and  a  book  of  sea-stories,  and  Johnny 
slowly  munches,  and  reads,  and  time  passes,  and  at 
last 

He  starts  up  with  a  weak  shout,  for  there  is  M.  Paul 
supporting  Snowball,  looking  pallid  and  pathetic,  but 
otherwise  not  so  much  the  worse  for  her  week  on  the 
barren  furze  of  Chapeau  Dieu.  Her  blue  eyes  look  like 
azure  moons,  in  her  white  small  face. 

"  Oh,  Johnny  !"  she  solemnly  says. 

It  is  an  adjuration  with  which  Johnny  is  tolerably  fa- 
miliar, emotion  of  any  sort  evoking  it  some  sixty  times, 
on  an  average,  per  day.  He  laughs  in  response,  and 
looks  shyly  at  her  escort. 

"J^ohnny,  dear  old  chap,"  that  gentleman  says,  and 
gives  his  hand  a  cordial  grasp,  "  don't  stop.  Peg  away 
at  the  chicken,  and  give  some  to  Snowball.  It  does  me 
good  to  see  you." 

"  How  does  Rene  get  on,  sir  ?" 

"  Ah,  not  so  well ;  Rene  is  hot  and  feverish,  and  a 
trifle  light-headed.  Fancy  his  giving  in,  while  this  little, 
yellow-haired  lassie  holds  out  so  well." 

"It  was  my  fault,"  says  Snowball,  in  penitent  tears. 
"  I  know  now  he  starved  himself  for  me.  And  he  made 
me  mind  him.  I  didn't  want  to — now,  did  I,  Johnny?" 

"  Rene  is  a  young  gentleman  who  will  always  make 
people  mind  him.  There  is  nothing  to  cry  for,  Petite — 
he  is  not  going  to  die,  not  a  bit  of  it.  Eat  your  chicken 
and  dry  your  eyes — he  may  have  rather  a  hard  bout  of  it 
for  a  week  or  so,  but  he  will  come  round  like  the  hero 
he  is." 

M.  Paul  Farrar  proves  a  true  prophet,  only  the 
"  bout  "  is  rather  harder  than  even  he  anticipates.  Rene 
is  quite  delirious  at  times,  and  talks  wildly  of  Chapeau 


SNOWBALDS    HERO.  183 

Dieu,  and  the  storm,  and  the  bower,  and  the  berries,  and 
gathers  more  in  his  heated  imagination  of  that  luscious 
fruit  than  he  ever  did  in  reality,  and  sings  scraps  of  the 
evening  hymn,  and  quotes  Shakespeare,  and  conducts 
himself  altogether  in  a  noisy  and  objectionable  manner. 
But  at  no  time  is  there  much  real  danger,  and  he  is  so 
faithfully  nursed,  so  devotedly  attended,  that  he  must 
perforce  turn  the  sharp  corner  of  the  fever,  and  come 
around,  all  cool  and  clear-headed,  but  deplorably  weak 
and  helpless,  at  the  end  of  seven  or  eight  days. 

"And  you  and  Johnny  look  as  well  as  if  it  had  never 
happened,"  he  says,  languidly,  with  a  resentful  sense  of 
injury  upon  him  "  What  a  muff  I  must  be  !" 

They  do,  indeed,  look  as  well,  as  bright,  as  fresh,  as 
plump,  as  though  these  six  days  on  the  desolate  moun- 
tain side  were  but  a  dream.  Johnny  by  this  time  is  de- 
cidedly proud  of  his  performance,  though  a  trifle  bored, 
too,  by  the  questions  with  which  he  is  plied  whenever  he 
appears  at  St.  Gildas.  The  Boule-de-neige  is  safe  at  her 
moorings,  none  the  worse  for  her  playful  little  escapade  ; 
Rene  is  all  right,  M.  Paul  is  here,  and  Johnny  is  happy. 

All  these  feverish  and  flighty  days  Snowball  has  de- 
voted herself  to  the  patient  with  a  meekness,  a  docility, 
a  sweetness  almost  alarming  in  its  self-abnegation. 

She  reads  to  him,  sings  to  him,  brings  him  his  beef- 
teas,  and  chicken  broths,  and  toast,  and  water,  and  other 
nastiness,  as  Rene  calls  it,  and  watches  him  eat  and 
drink,  and  recover,  with  the  devotedness  of  a  mother ! 
Rene  submits  to  be  petted,  and  cuddled,  and  made  much 
of  for  a  few  days — she  keeps  Weesy  out,  and  that  is  a 
great  point — accepts  her  society,  listens  with  languid 
graciousness  to  her  gossip,  lets  her  read  him  to  sleep, 
lets  her  fan  off  the  flies,  and  adorn  his  chamber  with 
flowers,  and  then — all  in  a  moment — turns  round,  and 
flatly  declares  he  will  have  no  more  of  it !  Strength  and 
his  normal  state  are  returning,  and  this  phase  of  super- 
natural goodness  and  calm  comes  as  might  be  expected. 


i84  SNOWBALLS    HERO 

to  a  sudden  and  violent  end.  He  isn't  a  baby— he  won't 
swallow  gruel  and  disgusting  beef-tea ;  he  won't  be 
tucked  in  o'  nights  and  have  Snowball  popping  in  and 
out  of  his  room  like  a  Jack-in-a-box  whenever  she 
pleases  !  Let  her  go  with  Johnny,  as  she  used  to,  she 
would  rather,  he  knows — she  needn't  victimize  herself 
because  he  picked  a  few  raspberries  for  her  there  on  the 
mountain  !  And  she  isn't  much  of  a  companion,  any- 
way— he  would  far  and  away  rather  talk  to  M.  Paul ! 
Which  is  ungrateful,  to  say  the  least,  after  the  superhu- 
man efforts  she  has  been  making  to  amuse  him  during 
the  past  seven  days.  And  Snowball,  deeply  hurt,  but 
relieved  all  the  same,  does  give  it  up,  does  resume  the 
society  of  Johnny,  and  is  prepared,  the  instant  Rene  is 
strong  enough  for  battle,  to  resume  war  to  the  knife  as 
of  yore. 

M.  Paul  is  a  prime  favorite  in  the  household.  Dr. 
Macdonald  beams  in  his  presence — he  is  the  idol  of 
Ma'am  Weesy's  heart ;  the  boys  look  upon  him  with 
eyes  of  envy  and  admiration — a  man  who  has  been  every- 
where, and  seen  every  thing,  and  place,  and  people,  v 

Snowball  falls  in  love  with  him,  of  course — that  goes 
without  saying — and  is  never  out  of  his  presence  a  mo- 
ment, when  she  can  be  in  it.  Even  old  Tim  succumbs 
to  the  spell  of  the  charmer,  yields  to  the  fascination  of  M. 
Paul's  glance,  and  laugh,  and  voice,  and  old  Tim's  bat- 
tered heart  is  not  over  susceptible.  He  has  never,  within 
mortal  ken,  been  known  to  invite  a  man  into  his  domicile 
to  partake  of  a  dhrop  of  dhrink  before. 

They  sit  together,  one  sleepy  August  afternoon,  M. 
Paul  and  Snowball,  down  on  the  sands,  he  reclining  his 
long  length  upon  the  rank  reeds,  and  warm  waving  sea- 
side grasses,  his  straw  hat  pulled  half  over  his  eyes.  A 
golden  haze  rests  on  the  bay,  sails  come  and  go  through 
it  as  through  a  glory — fishing-boats  take  on  a  nimbus 
around  their  brown  rails.  There  is  the  faintest  breeze — 


SNOWBALLS    HERO.  185 

little  wavelets  lap  upon  the  white  sand,  the  beautiful  sea 
looks  as  though  it  could  never  be  cruel. 

By  chance  they  are  alone.  Johnny  has  just  left  them. 
Old  Tim  is  crooning  to  himself  up  in  the  light-house 
near,  as  he  polishes  his  lamps.  It  is  full  three  weeks 
since  the  rescue.  Rene  is  himself  again,  and  happy 
among  his  beloved  books.  Snowball  sits  on  a  rocky 
seat,  her  sailor  hat  well  on  the  back  of  her  head  as  usual, 
her  face  frankly  and  fearlessly  exposed  to  sea-side  sun 
and  wind.  Vanity  is  not  one  of  this  young  person's 
many  failings  ;  freckles  and  blisters,  and  sunburn  are 
matters  of  profoundest  unconcern,  at  this  period  of  her 
career.  He  has  been  telling  her  of  some  of  his  travels 
and  adventures  in  far-off  lands,  thrilling  enough  and 
narrow  enough  some  of  them.  No  romance  ever  writ- 
ten, it  seems  to  this  small  girl,  as  she  listens,  could  be 
half  so  wonderful,  no  hero  half  so  heroic. 

But  gradually  silence  has  fallen,  and  M.  Paul,  from 
under  his  wide  straw  hat,  looks  with  dark,  dreaming 
eyes  out  over  that  yellow  light  on  the  sea. 

Snowball  steals  a  glance  at  him.  Of  what  is  he  think- 
ing, she  wonders.  How  very  handsome  he  is !  How 
brown,  how  strong,  how  big,  how  manly  !  Of  what,  of 
whom  is  he  thinking,  as  he  lies  here,  with  that  grave, 
steady  glance?  And  what  is  he  to  her — he  who  brought 
her  here,  all  those  years  ago  ?  Why,  in  all  this  romance 
of  wandering  and  strange  adventures,  has  there  never 
been  a  heroine  ?  Or  has  there  been  one,  and  he  will  not 
tell  the  story  to  a  little  girl  of  twelve  ?  There  is  some- 
thing she  longs»  to  ask  him — has  often  longed  of  late, 
but  she  is  shy  with  him  ;  somehow,  in  spite  of  his  gen- 
ileness,  he  is  formidable  in  her  eyes.  She  makes  one  or 
two  efforts — now  is  the  time  or  never  ! — stops,  blushes, 
and  tries  again. 

"  M.  Paul  !" 

"  Petite  ?" 

He  wakes  from  his  dream  with  a  start,  and  then  smiles 


1 86  SNOWBALLS    HERO. 

slowly  to  see  the  rosy  tide  mounting  to  her  eye- 
brows. 

"  I — I  want  to  ask  you  something.  You  will  not 
mind?" 

"Mind?"  still  smiling  amusedly.  "How?  I  don't 
understand." 

"  You  will  not  be — mad  ?" 

"Mad?"  he  laughs.  "Offended  with  you,  Petite? 
No  ;  that  could  not  be." 

"  M.  Paul  " — a  pause.  "  You — you  brought  me 
here." 

"Nine — more  than  nine,  years  ago.  Ma  foil  how 
time  flies !  Yes." 

Another  pause.  Snowball  pulls  up  the  rank,  flame- 
colored  sedge-flowers  waving  in  the  wind,  and  finds 
going  on  hard  work.  The  dark,  amused  eyes  smile  up 
at  her,  and  intimidate  her. 

"  I  wish — I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something  about 
myself.  I  don't  know  anything.  I  think  sometimes  it 
is  not  fair  to  me.  I  think  a  great  deal,  M.  Paul,  about 
it,  and  it  makes  me  unhappy." 

Her  voice  falters  ;  she  stops. 

"  Unhappy,  Snowball  ?     Ah  !  I  am  sorry  for  chat." 

"  I  am  not  like  other  girls — I  feel  it — they  know  it. 
They  ask  me  questions  over  there  at  school  that  I  can't 
answer.  They  whisper  about  it,  and  tell  all  the  new 
girls — that  I  have  no  father  or  mother,  or  home  of  my 
own,  or  relations  at  all.  And  I  think  it  is  too  bad.  Every 
one  is  kind  enough,  but  still  it  is  hard.  And  I  want  to 
know  who  I  am,  M.  Paul,  please." 

Silence. 

The  steady  glance  of  M.  Paul,  out  of  which  all  amuse- 
ment has  died,  turns  from  her  and  goes  back  once  more 
to  that  amber  glory  of  sea  and  sky.  The  grave,  bronzed 
face  looks  as  it  looked  before  she  spoke  at  all,  thought- 
ful, and  a  little  sad. 

She  has  asked  a  harder  question,  it  may  be,  than  she 


SNOWBALL'S    HERO.  187 

knows.  He  is  silent  so  long  that  she  breaks  out  again 
herself  : 

"  Dr.  Macdonald  can  tell  me  nothing — he  would,  if 
he  could.  Everybody  is  good  to  me,  but — oh,  M.  Paul, 
tell  me — tell  me  if  you  can  !" 

"Snowball,  my  dear  little  one,  what  shall  I  tell  you?" 

"  Have  I  a  name — a  father — a  mother?  What  is  the 
reason  I  am  hidden  away  here — as  if  the  people  who  pay 
for  me  were  ashamed  of  me  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  They 
never  write,  they  never  send  or  come  to  see  me.  No  one 
seems  to  know  or  care  anything  about  me  in  all  the 
whole  world  !" 

A  sob,  but  Snowball  checks  it  by  a  great  effort.  She 
has  thought  this  all  out,  and  will  not  distress  M.  Paul 
by  crying. 

"  Dear  child,  we  all  love  you — you  know  that." 

"  Yes — here.  You  are  all  good.  But  there — who  are 
they  ?  Why  do  they  cast  me  off  and  disown  me  ?  Oh,  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  I  feel,  or  ask  questions  as  I  ought, 
but  won't  you  tell  me  all  the  same,  please  ?  I  have  no 
one  in  all  the  world  to  ask  but  you,  and  you  are — going 
— away,"  another  sudden  break,  "and — I  may  never  see 
you  again." 

He  reaches  up,  and  takes  her  hand,  and  holds  it  in 
his  large,  warm  clasp.  He  looks  surprised.  Who  would 
have  dreamed  of  so  much  thought  and  feeling  under  that 
child-like,  gay,  girl  nature?  He  looks  grieved,  puzzled, 
at  a  loss. 

"  Little  one,"  he  says,  slowly,  "I  hardly  know  how  to 
answer.  Some  of  your  questions  cannot  be  answered — 
now — some — what  is  it  you  want  to  know  most  ?" 

"Tell  me  my  name.  Snowball  is  no  name.  Mere 
Maddelena  will  not  call  me  by  it  ;  she  says  it  is  no  name 
for  a  Christian  child." 

"  It  is  no  saint's  name,  certainly,"  he  says,  smiling. 
"  I  should  fancy  it  would  shock  the  good  mother.  She 
should  give  you  another." 


1 88  SNOWBALL'S    HERO. 

"  She  has ;  but  what  was  I  called  before  I  came 
here  ?" 

"  Snowball — nothing  but  Snowball,  that  I  ever  heard. 
And  you  looked  it,  such  a  little,  white,  flaxen-haired 
girlie  !  It  was  the  name  your  mother  called  you  by." 

"  My  mother — oh !"  with  a  quick  breath.  "  M.  Paul, 
tell  me  of  my  mother." 

He  knits  his  brows  abruptly,  drops  her  hand,  and 
stares  straight  before  him,  very  hard,  into  space. 

"Your  mother?"  a  cold  inflection  of  which  he  is  quite 
unconscious,  in  his  voice,  "  what  is  there  to  tell  ?  When 
I  saw  her,  just  before  I  brought  you  here,  she  was  on  her 
death-bed.  She  met  with  an  accident,"  very  slowly  ; 
"  she  did  not  speak  to  me  or  any  one.  You  and  she  were 
alone." 

An  older  inquisitor  than  little  Mile.  Snowball  would 
have  seen,  it  may  be,  something  suspicious — a  great  deal 
held  back,  in  this  slow  and  careful  selection  of  words. 
But  Snowball  takes  the  statement  at  the  face  of  it. 

"  Then  it  was  not  my  mother  who  asked  you  to  take 
care  of  me  ?" 

"  It  was  not." 

"  M.  Paul— what  was  she  like  ?" 

"  Like  you — very  like  you  in  all  but  expression. 
Eyes,  hair,  features,  smile — almost  the  very  same." 

A  pause.  Snowball  sits  with  fast-locked  hands,  an 
intense  look  upon  her  small  pale  face.  M.  Paul  lies 
back  in  his  former  recumbent  attitude,  his  hat  again 
shading  his  eyes,  and  makes  his  responses  in  a  rather  re- 
luctant sounding  voice. 

"  You  do  not  want  to  tell !"  she  cries  out,  after  a  little, 
in  a  faint  tone.  "  You  would  not  make  me  ask  so  many 
questions  if  you  did.  But  I  must  know  more.  Some 
one  pays  for  me  here  ;  Dr.  Macdonald  gets  money  every 
six  months.  Who  is  that?" 

"  Her  name  is  Madam  Valentine." 

"  Who  is  Madam  Valentine  ?     What  am  I  to  her  ?" 


SNOIVBALVS    HERO.  189 

"  Madam  Valentine  is  an  elderly  lady,  and  very  rich 
— richer,  my  Snowball,  than  you  or  I  will  ever  be,  our 
whole  lives  long.  Her  son  married  your  mother — her 
only  son.  She  is  very  proud  as  well  as  rich,  and  it  was 
a  low  marriage.  Do  you  know  what  a  low  marriage  is, 
my  little  one  ?  She  cast  him  off — this  proud  lady.  He 
was  drowned,  it  appears,  a  few  years  after,  in  a  storm, 
about  the  time  you  were  born,  I  should  think.  That  is 
the  history,  in  brief,  of  Madam  Valentine." 

"  Then  my  father  is  dead,  too — drowned.  My  father 
drowned  in  a  storm — my  mother  killed  by  an  accident ! 
Oh  !  M.  Paul.  And  my  grandmother  casts  me  off — a 
little  thing  like  that !  She  is  a  cruel,  cruel  woman,  M. 
Paul !" 

No  reply. 

"  Where  does  she  live  ?"  resentfully,  "  this  proud,  hard 
Madam  Valentine?" 

"  Everywhere  ;  nowhere  in  particular.  She  is  nearly 
always  traveling  about.  She  is  of  a  restless  tempera- 
ment, it  would  seem." 

"  Does  she  wander  about  alone  ?" 

"No,"  smiling  at  the  scornful  tone,  "she  is  in  keep- 
ing. Her  nephew — also  her  heir — one  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine, accompanies  her.  It  was  from  him  I  received  you." 

And  then,  still  smiling  at  the  angry,  mystified  face,  he 
tells  her,  easily  enough,  his  part.  How,  knowing  Vane 
Valentine,  and  seeing  him  at  a  loss  how  to  dispose  of 
her,  he  had  volunteered  to  bring  her  here,  knowing 
Madam  Macdonald  would  rejoice  in  her  coming,  and 
Mr.  Valentine  had  at  once  closed  with  the  offer. 

"  I  knew  you  would  grow  up  happy  and  healthful 
here,  Petite,  loved  by  all,  and  loving  all.  And  I  was  not 
mistaken,  was  I  ?  You  are  happy,  in  spite  of  this  ?" 

"Happy?"  she  echoes.  "  Oh  !  yes,  M.  Paul,  I  am 
happy — happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Only  sometimes — but 
I  should  never  be  happy  with  people  like  that — I  should 
just  hate  them.  I  do  now.  I  love  everybody  here " 


190  SNOWBALDS     HERO. 

"Except  Rene?"  laughing.  "You  give  Johnny  his 
own  share  and  Rene's  too — eh,  Petite  ?  Although  when 
we  found  you,  that  night,  on  Chapeau  Dieu,  it  was  Rene 
you  were  holding  in  your  arms,  not  Johnny." 

"Well,"  Snowball  admits,  "I  do  like  Johnny  best — no 
one  could  help  that.  It  is  not  my  fault  if  Rene  is  so  stiff, 
and  contrary,  and  so  fond  of  his  own  way " 

"By  no  means,"  still  laughing.  "I  will  say  for  you, 
Snowball,  you  do  your  duty  by  Rene,  and  never  miss  a 
chance  of  snubbing  him — for  his  good,  of  course — always 
for  his  good  !  It  is  very  bad,  very  bad  indeed,  for  big 
fellows,  nearly  seventeen,  to  have  their  own  way — and 
you  never  spoil  Rene  in  that  manner,  if  you  can  help  it. 
Well,  Petite,  is  this  all  ?  Shall  we  drop  this  biographi- 
cal subject  here,  and  forever  ?  It  is  not  one  I  care  to  talk 
about,  for  reasons  of  my  own.  You  are  safe  and  happy, 
you  love  all  here,  and  are  beloved.  What  more  can  you 
want?  All  your  life  long,  Mademoiselle  Snowball, you 
will  find  it  easy  enough  to  win  love — more  than  you  may 
well  know  what  to  do  with,  one  day.  What  more,  I  re- 
peat, do  you  want  ?" 

"Nothing  more.  Thank  you,  M.  Paul,  for  telling 
me  this  much." 

"And  you  are  not  sorry  that,  nine  years  ago,  I 
brought  you  here  ?  Rene  is  coming,  with  a  big  book 
under  his  arm,  to  call  us  to  supper,  I  fancy.  Answer, 
before  we  go." 

He  takes  her  hand  again  ;  his  dark,  kindly,  but  keen 
eyes  search  her  face,  her  pretty,  blonde,  bright  face — so 
like  that  other  fair  face  laid  under  the  turf  in  the  distant 
New  England  town. 

"  Sorry  !  M.  Paul,  I  owe  all  the  happiness  of  my  life 
to  you  !  I  thank  you  with  my  whole  heart !" 

She  stoops,  with  a  quick,  childlike  grace,  and  kisses 
the  big,  brown  hand  that  clasps  her  own.  This  is  the 
tableau  that  meets  the  gaze  of  Rene,  and  petrifies  the 
gazer. 


VILLA     DES    ANGES.  191 

"  Sacr-r-re  bleu  /"  he  exclaims.  "  Do  these  eyes  de- 
ceive me?  Snowball,  trained  in  the  way  she  should  go 
(but  doesn't)  by  Mere  Maddelena,  making  love  to  M. 
Paul,  here,  all  unprotected  and  alone.  I  did  come  to  call 
you  to  supper,  but " 

"But  me  no  buts  !"  commands  M.  Paul,  laughingly, 
springing  to  his  legs  ;  "  and  cease  these  jealous  and  cen- 
sorious remarks.  Has  Weesy  anything  particularly 
good,  do  you  know,  Rene  ?" 

"Any  Greek  or  Latin  roots  fricassee,  Rene?"  impa- 
tiently puts  in  Snowball. 

Side  by  side  they  turn  their  backs  upon  the  amber 
glitter  of  sea  and  sky,  and  ascend  to  the  cottage,  and 
though  M.  Paul  talks  much  as  usual,  Rene  wonders  what 
has  come  to  loquacious  Snowball,  so  silent,  so  thought- 
ful, so  serious  is  she.  For  somehow,  now  that  the  long 
desired  explanation  is  over,  she  feels  dissatisfied  still — 
things  are  not  much  clearer  than  before,  and  M.  Paul 
has  reasons  of  his  own  for  never  talking  of  this  any 
more.  He  has  said  so.  It  is  not  until  long  after  that 
she  knows,  and  then  the  knowledge  is  fraught  with  keen- 
est pain,  of  these  secret  reasons  of  M.  Paul  Farrar. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 
VILLA    DES    ANGES. 

HE  summer  days  come,  and  the  summer  days 
go  ;  twenty  more  are  counted  off,  and  it  is 
the  end  of  August,  the  close  of  the  long  vaca- 
tion— a  never-to-be-forgotten  time,  since  M. 
Paul  has  passed  it  here.  But  with  the  going  of  this  last 
week  M.  Paul  goes  too,  and  a  strange  blank  is  left  in  the 
doctor's  home,  and  in  these  three  youthful  hearts. 


1 92  VILLA     DES    ANGES. 

"  You  and  I,  at  least,  will  meet  again  before  long," 
he  says  to  Rene  at  parting  ;  "  remember  when  the 
time  comes  to  call  upon  me — if  I  live  I  will  not  fail 
you." 

For  in  the  long  and  confidential  hours  of  his  conva- 
lescence, Rene,  the  reticent,  has  opened  his  whole  heart 
to  this  sympathetic  M.  Paul,  and  told  him  of  hopes,  and 
dreams,  and  longings,  and  ambitions  buried  deep  in  his 
own  heart  up  to  this  hour.  He  is  a  modest  lad,  and  shy, 
and  glances  with  dark,  wistful  eyes  at  the  silent  friend 
who  sits  beside  him. 

"Does  it  all  sound  very  foolish  and  impossible  to 
you,  M.  Paul  ?"  he  asks.  "  Sometimes  it  does  to  me. 
Sometimes  I  despair,  buried  here  in  this  out-of-the-world 
place.  And  my  father,  you  know,  sir,  wishes  me  to  be  a 
doctor.  But  that  can  never  be,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Still  you  might  study  medicine,"  M.  Farrar  responds, 
thoughtfully  ;  "  it  will  please  your  father,  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  anatomy  is  absolutely  essential,  you  know,  if 
your  aspirations  are  ever  carried  out.  And  they  will  be 
— you  have  it  in  you,  Rene,  lad.  Foolish  and  impossible  ! 
Not  at  all ;  I  always  knew  you  had  a  spark  of  the  divine 
fire  of  genius  somewhere  behind  those  level  black  brows 
of  yours,  only  I  did  not  know  the  particular  direction  in 
which  it  was  bent.  Wait,  all  things  are  possible  to  him 
who  knows  how  to  wait.  Please  your  father  for  the 
present ;  keep  your  own  counsel ;  I  will  send  you  books, 
and  in  every  possible  way  in  which  I  can  further  your 
condition,  it  shall  be  my  great  pleasure  to  do  it.  Abroad, 
you  see,  I  may  have  opportunities.  When  the  time  comes, 
you  shall  go  to  Italy,  to  Rome,  the  city  of  dead  and  liv- 
ing art.  I  am  proud  of  your  confidence.  I  shall  not  fail 
you,  believe  me." 

Rene's  deep  eyes  glow,  he  is  not  expansive  by  nature, 
but  he  grasps  the  friendly  hand  held  out  to  him  in  both 
hands,  and  his  eloquent  face  speaks  for  him.  His  whole 
heart  overflows  with  gratitude.  Ah  !  this  is  friendship ! 


VILLA    DES    ANGES.  193 

Indeed,  the  whole  household,  with  Weesy  and  Tim,  are 
in  despair  at  this  desertion.  Snowball  weeps  her  blue 
eyes  al]  red  and  swollen,  for  days  before,  and  will  not  be 
comforted. 

"  If  I  see  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  before  I  leave  the  coun- 
try," he  says  to  her,  a  mischievous  gleam  in  his  eyes, 
"your  benefactor,  you  know,  what  shall  I  say  to  him  from 
you  ?" 

"Say  I  hate  him!"  answers  Mistress  Snowball,  vic- 
iously. "  I  always  hated  benefactors  !  I  owe  it  to  you, 
not  to  him,  that  I  am  here.  I  never  want  to  see  him,  or 
ner,  as  long  as  I  live." 

The  day  comes,  and  Paul  Farrar  goes.  Old  Tim  rows 
him  over  to  St.  Gildas,  to  take  train  from  thence  to  the 
world  without.  Dr.  Macdonald  and  Rene  accompany 
him,  in  this  first  stage  of  his  long  journey ;  Johnny,  and 
Snowball,  and  Weesy  stand  on  the  island  beach,  and 
wave  good-by.  As  the  boat  touches  the  St.  Gildas  shore 
he  looks  back.  Johnny  and  Weesy  have  gone,  but  Snow- 
ball still  stands  where  they  left  her,  a  slight,  fluttering 
figure,  her  bright  hair  blowing,  gazing  after  through 
tear-dimmed  eyes  still. 

But  life  goes  on,  though  dear  ones  depart.  Septem- 
ber comes,  cool  and  breezy  ;  her  convent  school  re-opens, 
and  Snowball's  freedom  is  at  an  end.  No  more  long 
sails  in  the  batteau,  no  more  dangerous  excursions  to 
Chapeau  Dieu,  no  more  long  rainy  days  of  romance 
reading  up  in  her  attic  chamber.  The  dull  routine  of 
lessons  recommences,  grammar  and  history,  and  Noel 
et  Chapsel  and  fine  needle-work,  take  the  place  of  gypsy 
outdoor  life,  and  the  seventy-five  boarders  of  Villa  des 
Anges  are  her  daily  companions  instead  >f  the  boys.  Old 
Tim  rows  her  over  every  morning,  and  Lack  every  after- 
noon. Life,  as  Johnny  pathetically  puts  t,  is  no  longer 
"all  beer  and  skittles;"  even  he  has  to  tnrow  aside  his 
beloved  Captain  Marryatt,  and  recommence  mathematics 
and  Latin,  and  Rene — but  Rene  dreams  his  own  dreams 
9 


i94  VILLA    DES    ANGES. 

in  these  days  with  a  steady  aim  and  purpose  in  view,  ab- 
sorbs himself  in  his  studies,  writes  long  letters  to  M. 
Paul,  and  is  mute  to  all  the  world  beside. 

Villa  des  Anges  is  a  stately  establishment,  set  in  spa- 
cious grounds,  on  a  breezy  height  overlooking  town  and 
bay.  It  is  a  boarding-school,  and  has  within  its  vestal 
walls  youthful  angels  from  nearly  every  quarter  of  the 
globe.  There  are  a  dozen  or  more  day-pupils,  besides 
the  pensionnaires — among  these  latter  Snowball  Trillon, 
although  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  is  no  such  name  down 
on  the  school-roll.  There  is  a  Dolores  Macdonald,  and 
— Dolores  of  all  names  to  Mere  Maddelena,  and  her  good 
sisters,  Snowball  is.  This  is  how  : 

When  the  child  first  came  to  Isle  Perdrix  at  three  and 
a  half,  the  doctor's  wife  took  her  training  and  education 
under  her  exclusive  charge.  For  five  years  her  two  boys 
were  hardly  more  to  her  than  this  little  stray  waif, 
dropped,  as  it  seemed,  from  the  skies.  Then  came  a  sad 
and  sudden  death.  The  good  old  doctor  was  almost  in 
despair.  The  sight  of  the  little  girl  in  her  black  dress 
intensified  his  grief  and  remembrance  so  painfully,  that 
Ma'am  Weesy  prevailed  upon  him  to  send  her  over  for 
a  year  or  two  to  Villa  des  Anges.  So,  at  nine  years  old 
Snowball  went,  rebelliously  and  loudly  protesting,  a 
pensionnaire  to  the  convent,  full  of  direst  anguish  and 
wrath,  at  being  thus  forcibly  wrenched  from  the  society 
of  her  beloved  Johnny.  As  a  lamb  to  the  shearers,  she 
is  led  into  the  parlor  by  grim  old  Weesy,  and  there,  in 
tears  and  trembling,  awaits  the  coming  of  the  dread 
Lady  Abbess.  But  when  there  enters  a  tall  and  stately 
lady,  whose  pale,  serene  face  the  snowy  coif  becomes, 
'  with  sweet,  smiling  eyes,  and  sweeter  broken  English,  a 
great  calm  falls  on  the  little  damsel's  perturbed  spirit. 
She  lays  her  flaxen  head  on  Mere  Maddelena's  black 
serge  shoulder,  with  a  sigh  of  vast  relief,  and  submits  to 
be  kissed  on  both  tear-wet  cheeks,  and  to  be  asked  her 
name. 


VILLA     DES    ANGES.  195 

"  Snowball  Trillon,  madame." 

Now  Mere  Maddelena,  having  baptismals  ot  eveiy 
sort  and  size  in  her  villa,  should  not  have  been  surprised 
at  the  odd  sound  of  any  cognomen,  but  she  decidedly  is, 
shocked  even,  at  this.  She  gives  a  little  cry  of  dismay, 
essays  to  repeat  the  name,  and  lamentably  fails. 

"  But  dat  is  not  a  nem,"  she  says.  "  What  you  call  it 
in  French  —  Boule-de-neige  ?  You  hear,  Soeur  Ignatia  ? 
Dat  is  no  nem.  Was  you  christen  dat,  my  chile?" 

Snowball  does  not  know — does  not  remember  ever 
being  christened.  Has  been  called  Snowball,  nothing 
but  Snowball,  all  her  life. 

Mere  Maddelena  listens  in  ever-growing  dismay. 
Does  not  know  if  she  has  ever  been  christened  !  Has 
no  father  or  mother  !  This  must  be  seen  to  before  she  is 
admitted  as  pupil  into  Villa  des  Anges.  Mere  Maddelena 
does  not  want  children  of  doubtful  antecedents.  Dr. 
Macdonald  must  be  questioned  about  this. 

"  It  is  imposs  dat  chile  shall  keep  de  so  foolish  nem," 
she  says,  with  some  indignation,  to  the  attendant  Sister. 
"  I  am  shem  of  it." 

"  I  zink  it  is  ze  moze  fonny  nem  I  ever  hear,"  replies, 
smiling,  Sr.  Ignatia  ;  "  it  mek  Pere  Louis  ye  so  great 
laugh  last  time  he  come.  We  must  baptize  her  anozzer — 
de  nem  of  some  saint." 

Snowball  is  admitted  on  sufferance ;  Mere  Maddelena 
calls  her  "  dat  chile,"  and  utterly  ignores  the  obnoxious 
"  Snowball."  The  girls  adopt  it  with  glee,  and  "Snow- 
ball "  and  "  Boule-de-neige  "  are  shouted  over  the  play- 
ground amid  noisy  laughter  until  its  poor  little  owner  is 
as  much  "  shem  of  it "  as  the  good  mother  herself.  But 
the  novelty  wears  off — Snowball  sounds  no  longer  oddly, 
and  the  little  girl  herself  becomes  a  prime  favorite  with 
the  pensionnaires. 

Dr.  Macdonald  is  sent  for,  and  comes,  and  appears 
before  the  tribunal  of  Mere  Maddelena,  who  there  and 
then  demands  an  unvarnished  history  of  her  ne,w  boarder. 


196  VILLA    DES    ANGES. 

The  doctor  has  little  to  tell^he  hardly  realizes  himself, 
how  meager  is  the  information  Paul  Farrar  has  given 
him,  until  called  upon  to  retail  it  thus.  The  child  is  an 
orphan,  her  friends  are  wealthy  and  most  respectable,  but 
do  not  wish  to  have  charge  of  her  personally. 

Snowball  Trillon — which  does  not  sound  like  a  real 
name,  he  admits — is  the  only  one  he  knows  her  by. 
Valentine  is  the  name  of  her  friends,  he  believes.  As 
to  whether  she  has  ever  been  baptized  or  not — Dr.  Mac- 
donald  shrugs  his  shoulders.  What  will  the  good 
mother  ?  He  knows  nothing. 

The  good  mother,  with  calm  but  inflexible  resolu- 
tion, wills  that  he  finds  out.  Otherwise  Snowball  Tril- 
lon cannot  be  admitted  as  a  pcnsionnairc  into  exclusive 
Villa  des  Anges.  And  if  it  is  discovered  that  she  is  un- 
baptized,  the  omission  must  be  at  once  set  right — if  she 
is  to  remain  here.  It  is  the  rule.  Meanwhile  she  can 
remain,  and  run  about  the  play-ground  with  the  rest. 

Dr.  Macdonald  writes  to  M.  Paul  Farrar  at  Fayal. 
M.  Paul  Farrar  writes  to  Mr.  Vane  Valentine,  spending 
the  winter  in  Florida  with  his  aunt.  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine reads  that  letter,  twirls  it  into  a  cigar-light,  ignites 
his  weed,  and  sets  his  heel  on  its  ashes. 

He  scrawls  a  line  in  reply.  He  knows  nothing 
about  it,  and  cares  less.  They  may  call  her  what  they 
please,  or  not  call  her  at  all,  if  they  prefer  it. 

It  is  about  as  roughly  insolent  as  scrawl  can  be  ;  he 
hates  the  very  thought  of  the  trapeze  woman's  child. 
He  does  not  lay  the  matter  before  Madam  Valentine,  as 
M.  Farrar  has  suggested — the  sooner  Madam  Valentine, 
obliterates  from  her  memory  the  circus  brat  the  better. 

She  seems  to  be  doing  so,  she  never  asks  any  ques- 
tions— he  is  not  likely  to  revive  her  memory.  In  due 
course  this  reply  reaches  Fayal — M.  Farrar  forwards  it 
in  turn  to  Dr.  Macdonald.  If  poor  little  Snowball  were 
a  princess  incognito,  there  could  hardly  be  more  round- 
about correspondence  concerning  her.  The  upshot  is, 


VILLA    DES    ANGES.  197 

Mere  Maddelena  is  at  liberty  to  do  as  she  pleases,  and 
christen  her  what  she  likes,  and  as  soon  as  she  sees  fit. 

Mere  Maddelena,  full  of  vigor  and  zeal,  sets  to  work 
at  once.  Next  week  is  the  feast  of  Our  Lady  of  Dolors 
— could  anything  fall  out  more  opportunely? — the  child 
shall  be  baptized  Marie  Dolores.  And  so  it  is.  The 
convent  chapel,  sparkling  with  wax-lights,  fragrant  with 
flowers,  is  thrown  open  ;  the  ceremony  has  been  an- 
nounced, and  quite  a  congregation  of  the  ladies  of  St. 
Gildas,  all  the  pupils,  and  the  sisters  attend.  The  pen- 
sionnaires,  in  their  white  dresses,  the  nuns  in  their  black 
serge  and  great  coifs,  make  a  very  effective  picture. 
Pere  Louis  is  there  to  admit  this  stray  lambkin  into  the 
fold.  There  is  organ  music,  and  chants,  and  litanies. 
And  down  at  the  baptismal  font,  in  white  Swiss,  and  a 
long  tulle  veil,  and  snowy  wreath,  like  a  fairy  bride, 
wonderfully  pretty,  and  exceedingly  full  of  her  own  im- 
portance, stands  Snowball,  with  her  sponsors.  Her  boys 
are  there  in  a  corner  ;  she  glances  at  them  complacently, 
and  nearly  has  her  gravity  upset  by  an  affectionate  and 
sympathetic  wink  from  Johnny.  And  then  and  there 
she  becomes  Marie  Dolores  for  all  time. 

If  Mere  Maddelena  had  striven  of  set  purpose,  she 
could  hardly  have  selected  a  seemingly  more  inappro- 
priate name.  Felicia,  Letitia,  Lucilla — anything  mean- 
ing happiness,  joy,  light,  would  have  seemed  in  keeping ; 
but  Dolores — sorrowful — for  that  radiant-looking  little 
one  !  It  strikes  even  the  spectators — even  Pere  Louis. 

"Your  new  name  does  not  seem  to  fit,  Mademoiselle 
Dolores,"  he  says,  pulling  her  by  one  of  her  long  curls. 
"  Let  us  hope  it  never  may.  It  seems  a  pity  not  re  mere 
cannot  reconcile  herself  to  the  other  one — it  suits  you, 
I  think." 

But  little  girls  can  tolerate  it,  and  decline  to  change 
it ;  thus  while  she  is  Dolores  from  thenceforth  to  the 
sisters,  she  remains  Snowball  to  the  boarders. 

And  the  months  slip  by,  and  the  seasons  come  and 


198  VILLA    DES    ANGES. 

go,  and  the  years  are  counted  off  on  the  long  bead  roll 
of  Old  Time,  and  her  twelfth  birthday  is  a  thing  of  the 
past.  M.  Paul  has  come  and  gone,  and  school,  and  Ger- 
man exercises,  and  piano  practice,  and  drawing  lessons, 
and  Italian  singing,  all  recommence,  and  the  sharp  edge 
of  parting  has  worn  off  somehow  before  she  knows  it. 
She  is  busy  and  happy — a  bright,  joyous,  fun-loving, 
mischief-making,  truthful,  loving,  clever,  and  fairly  stu- 
dious girl — healthful,  and  handsome,  and  high-spirited — 
a  granddaughter  even  haughty  Madam  Valentine  might 
be  proud  of.  Of  the  big,  busy  world  outside  St.  Gildas 
she  knows  nothing,  and  cares  very  little ;  she  has  her 
own  world  here,  her  "boys  "  the  center  of  her  orbit,  and 
hosts  of  friends  whom  she  dearly  loves.  Wild  wintry 
storms  howl  around  Isle  Perdrix,  and  the  big  waves  rise 
in  their  majesty  and  might,  and  thunder  all  about  them  ; 
white,  whirling  storms  of  snow  fall  for  days,  and  even 
the  little  world  of  St.  Gildas  is  shut  out.  Those  are 
seasons  of  bliss  never  to  be  forgotten,  when,  with  huge 
red  fires  in  every  room,  they  three  sit  and  devour  to- 
gether the  "thrilling"  novel,  the  "delicious"  poem. 
Like  the  little  boy  in  the  primer,  Snowball's  cry  is,  "Oh, 
that  winter  would  last  forever !" 

Thirteen,  fourteen,  fifteen — the  birthdays  tread  on 
each  other's  heels,  it  seems  to  her  sometimes,  so  rapidly 
do  the  months  slip  round,  and  they  surprise  her,  by 
coming  again. 

And  now  it  is  another  September,  and  she  is  quite 
sixteen — a  tall,  slim,  pale  girl,  with  only  a  faint  wild- 
rose  tint  in  either  cheek,  but  a  tint  that  is  ready  to  flutter 
into  carnation,  at  a  word,  a  look. 

"  Our  Snowball  wouldn't  be  half  bad-looking," 
Johnny  is  wont  to  remark,  altogether  seriously,  "  if  she 
wasn't  so  much  on  the  hop-pole  patterns.  There  is 
nothing  of  her  but  arms  and  legs,  and  a  lot  of  light 
hair." 


LA     VIVANDIERE.  199 

Johnny's  taste  leans  to  the  dark,  the  plump,  the  rosy, 
as  exemplified  in  Mile.  Innocente  Desereaux. 

Ii  is  her  last  year  at  Villa  des  Anges.  Next  com- 
mencement she  will  graduate,  and  after  that 

Ah!  after  that  life  is- not  very  clear.  The  boys  arc 
going  away.  Rene,  indeed,  has  already  gone  to  New 
York,  as  a  preliminary  step  in  the  study  of  sculpture, 
which,  it  appears,  is  to  be  his  vocation  in  life.  He  is 
over  twenty  now,  and  has  made  his  final  decision.  It  is 
a  question  she  ponders  over  with  knitted  brows  and 
anxious  mind  very  often. 

She  will  be  qualified  to  go  out  as  a  governess,  she 
supposes,  or  a  teacher  of  music  and  languages,  probably 
in  Montreal. 

Except  for  this  perplexity,  the  girl's  life  is  absolutely 
serene  and  free  from  care,  and  in  after  years — in  the 
after  years  so  full  of  strange  bitterness  and  pain,  she 
looks  back  to  this  peaceful  time  with  an  aching  sense  of 
wonder,  that  she  could  ever  have  wished  it  over,  or 
thought  it  dull. 

But  changes  are  at  hand,  and  suddenly,  when  change 
is  expected  least,  it  comes,  and  Isle  Perdrix  and  St. 
Gildas,  and  Villa  des  Anges  vanish  out  of  her  existence 
like  the  figures  of  a  dream. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 
LA    VIVANDIERE. 

WAY  from  wild  and  lonely  Bay  Chalette,  with 
its  gloomy  fogs,  its  fierce  Atlantic  gales,  its 
beetling  surf  breaking  forever  on  its  craggy 
shore,  its  blinding  drifts  of  snow,  its  long, 
bleak  winters,  the  sun  is  selling  in  rosy  splendor  over 


200  LA     VIVAMDIERE. 

another  sea,  a  fair,  serene,  southern  sea.  A  low,  white 
house  stands  with  its  face  turned  to  this  rose-light,  its 
windows  like  glints  of  gold,  and  house  and  windows  are 
half  hidden  behind  a  tangled,  trailing  wealth  of  cape 
jessamine  and  climbing  roses.  The  house  is  built  of 
stone,  stuccoed  and  whitewashed,  with  a  hanging  balcony 
from  the  second  story,  and  a  veranda  below.  And  in 
tropical  luxuriance,  the  grounds  are  ablaze  with  flowers 
and  shrubs,  with  the  orange,  the  lemon,  the  banana,  the 
fig,  the  stately  date-palm.  A  soft  wind,  velvety  and  fra- 
grant, floats  up  from  the  ocean.  In  the  dim  background, 
resting  tranquil  in  an  amber  rain  of  mist,  lies  St.  Augus- 
tine. 

The  long  veranda,  which  runs  the  whole  front  of  the 
house,  is  one  glowing  mass  of  color — one  scented  wealth 
of  roses.  Up  and  down  this  veranda  a  lady  walks,  drink- 
ing in  the  cool  sea-breeze,  and  gazing  at  the  rich  glow  of 
this  southern  sunset.  An  elderly  lady,  upright  and 
stately,  with  white  hair,  puffed  elaborately  under  a  cap 
of  finest  point,  a  severe  silvery  face,  piercing  dark  eyes 
that  have  lost  at  sixty-seven  no  whit  of  the  fire  of  youth, 
a  trained  dress  of  dark  silk,  and  some  yellowish  lace,  of 
fabulous  value,  at  the  throat,  held  together  by  a  cluster 
of  brilliants.  She  supports  herself  on  an  ebony  cane, 
mounted  with  gold,  but  carried  more,  it  is  evident,  from 
habit,  than  through  any  real  necessity.  A  handsome  and 
haughty  old  lady,  with  broad,  smooth  brow,  and  thin 
mouth,  set  in  a  sort  of  hard  and  habitual  disdain. 

Up  and  dovVn,  up  and  down — it  is  her  daily  afternoon 
habit — thinking  her  thoughts  alone.  She  is  always  alone, 
this  woman  ;  it  seems  to  he^  sometimes,  she  has  been 
alone  all  her  life.  She  is  worse  than  alone  now,  she  is 
forced  to  endure  uncongenial  companionship. 

Her  walk  takes  her  each  time  past  two  long  lighted 
windows  ;  she  glances  through  the  lace  draperies  some- 
times, and  the  disdainful  curve  of  the  resolute  mouth  in- 
teiisifies  into  absolute  aversion.  Two  gentlemen  sit  in 


LA     VIVANDIERE.  201 

that  lighted  room,  playing  chess  ;  it  is  at  the  elder  of 
these  two  she  looks  with  that  half-veiled  glance  of  dis- 
like. The  lady  is  Madam  Valentine,  the  gentleman,  Vane 
Valentine,  her  heir. 

Sovereigns,  it  is  said,  have  but  little  love  for  their 
successors.  Perhaps  this  inborn  instinct  is  the  reason. 
The  servants  in  the  house  will  tell  you  the  madam  is 
afraid  of  him.  And  yet  she  does  not  look  like  a  woman 
easily  made  afraid,  easily  cowed,  easily  brought  into 
subjection  to  any  will.  Her  own  is  very  strong,  and 
seemingly  reigns  paramount.  But  there  is  often  a  power 
behind  the  throne,  which  the  throne  fears  in  spite  of 
itself.  That  power  exists  here.  Mr.  Vane  Valentine,  if 
not  a  man  of  powerful  mind,  is  yet  a  man  of  profound 
obstinacy,  whether  in  trifles  or  in  matters  of  moment ; 
there  is  a  certain  doggedness  about  him  that  does  not 
know  when  it  is  beaten,  and  goes  on,  unabashed,  until  it 
has  won  the  game.  And  he  grows  impatient,  like  all 
crown  princes,  to  come  into  his  kingdom.  He  has  hopes 
and  plans  of  his  own,  that  depend  for  their  fruition  on 
this  fortune,  and  the  queen  regnant  is  so  long  a  dying  ! 
More,  she  looks  as  much  like  living  as  she  did  a  score  of 
years  ago  !  He  swears  under  his  breath,  sometimes  over 
it,  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  chamber,  but  madam's  vitality 
is  a  matter  in  which  no  amount  of  profanity,  however 
heartfelt  and  sincere,  can  avail. 

She  lives,  and  is  likely  to  live  ;  she  takes  excellent 
care  of  herself,  and  spends  her  money — his  money  rather, 
lavishly — with  both  hands,  on  every  whim.  For,  close 
upon  seventy,  she  still  has  whims.  And  she  knows  his 
feelings,  and  he  knows  she -knows,  and  resents  it  bitterly, 
indignantly,  silently.  It  seems  to  her  basest  treachery 
that  he  should  wish  to  anticipate  by  one  moment  his  suc- 
cession. But  then  she  knows  nothing  of  those  hidden 
plans — Vane  Valentine  is  a  secretive  man  by  nature, 
even  in  trifles — knows  nothing  of  the  patiently  waiting 
sister,  Dorothea,  who  is  to  keep  house  for  him  at  Manor 
9* 


202  LA     VIVANDIERE. 

Valentine  when  he  is  Sir  Vane,  and  the  American  mil- 
lions are  his — nothing  of  Miss  Camilla  Rooth,  a  fair 
cousin,  who  used  to  be  younger,  and  who  has  spent  her 
youth,  and  dimmed  her  beauty,  waiting,  like  Mariana  in 
the  Moated  Grange,  for  the  coming  of  Cousin  Vane, 
baronet  and  millionaire. 

Of  these  things  she  knows  little — she  only  knows  she 
is  growing  to  hate  him,  only  knows  that  he  is  miserly 
and  mean,  grasping  and  grudging,  and  longing  for  her 
death,  and  sees  in  her,  not  his  benefactress,  but  an  ob- 
stacle to  his  hopes  and  wishes,  and  her  riches,  by  right, 
already  his  own.  There  is  never  any  open  rupture,  there 
is  cold  civility  and  attention  on  one  side,  chill  scorn  and 
indifference  on  the  other,  but  she  draws  more  and  more 
into  herself,  lives  her  own  life,  thinks  her  own  thoughts. 
What  if  she  should  disappoint  him  after  all ! — it  is  in 
her  power.  There  is  a  fierce  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  vin- 
dictive thought — she  can  leave  her  wealth  as  she  pleases 
— to  endow  hospitals,  build  churches,  found  libraries  ! 
What  if  she  does  it !  It  would  be  justifiable  reprisal ! 
And  yet — to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family — to  disobey  her 

husband's  dying  wish  !  There  is  no  one  else Stay  ! 

is  there  not?  No  one  else  ?  What  of  her  son's  daugh- 
tei — her  only  son's  only  child  ?  What  of  her  ?  Nearer 
in  blood,  her  very  own — George's  little  child  ! 

The  mere  thought,  put  thus,  softens  her  heart.  What 
if  she  should  send  for  her?  She  breaks  off-^-the  idea 
comprehends  so  much — it  overwhelms  her  at  first.  But 
she  broods  and  broods  upon  it,  until  familiarity  wears 
off  the  first  sharp  repugnance  of  the  thought.  It  is  the 
thin  edge  of  the  wedge — the  "  rift  within  the  lute."  Once 
well  in,  for  the  rest  to  follow  is  but  a  matter  of  time. 
From  thinking  to  talking  is  a  natural  sequence — Mrs. 
Tinker  is  her  confidante  ;  adroitly  the  topic  is  brought 
round,  one  on  which  the  old  housekeeper  is  but  too  ready 
to  converse.  All  that  she  knows  of  the  child  and  hei 


LA     VIVANDIERE.  203 

mother — of  that  last  sad  interview  with  George,  is  dis- 
cussed over  and  over  again. 

It  is  wonderful  how  this  going  backward  softens  the 
resolute  old  heart.  George  lives  again,  she  hears  his 
voice,  sees  his  smile,  listens  to  his  boyish,  gladsome 
laugh.  Oh,  George,  George  !  how  sharper  than  death  is  • 
the  thought  of  her  harshness  now  !  But  his  child  still 
lives  ;  it  is  in  her  power  even  yet  to  make  compensation 
through  that  child.  Why  should  she  fear  Vane  Valen- 
tine ?  why  care  for  his  displeasure  ?  why  not  assert  her- 
self as  of  old,  and  claim  her  grandchild  as  her  right? 
She  muses  upon  it  until  she  is  full  of  the  thought ;  sleep- 
ing or  waking,  it  is  with  her.  It  is  of  that  she  is  think- 
ing so  intently  now,  as  she  paces  up  and  down.  It  is 
past  her  usual  hour  of  lingering  here  ;  a  moon  is  lifting 
its  shoulder  over  the  tall  date  palms  ;  the  starlit  south- 
ern night,  full  of  sweetest  odors  of  flower,  and  forest, 
and  sea,  lies  over  the  land.  Still  she  keeps  on,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down  ;  still  she  thinks,  and  dreams,  and 
longs.  Why  not — why  not — why  not  have  George's 
daughter — too  long  banished  from  this  her  rightful  home 
— here?  why  not  now,  at  once?  Thirteen  years  ago  she 
sent  her  from  her — she  is  sixteen  now,  fair  beyond 

doubt ;  her  mother  was  that,  and  her  father Ah  !  was 

there  ever  his  like  in  all  the  world  ?  So  much  bright, 
brave  beauty  to  lie  under  the  merciless  sea  for  thirteen 
years  !  Tears — very  rare  tears — soften  the  hard  bril- 
liance of  those  deep,  dark  eyes.  Seventeen  years  since 
she  cast  him  off,  and  only  now  thinking  of  reparation  ! 
Surely  there  is  little  time  to  be  lost  here,  if  she  means  in 
this  life  to  do  justice  to  his  child  ! 

"  Is  it  not  past  your  usual  hour,  aunt?"  asks  a  bland 
voice.  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  never  leaves  her  too  long  at 
once  to  melancholy  retrospections.  It  is  not  good  for 
her — or  for  him  either.  He  has  dismissed  his  friend,  and 
appears  by  her  side  on  the  veranda.  "Shall  I  assist 
you  in  ?" 


204  LA     VIVANDIERE. 

He  presents  an  arm,  but  she  declines,  with  an  im- 
patient gesture. 

"  I  thought  you  were  absorbed  in  chess  with  young 
Payton,"  she  says. 

"  Payton  has  gone.  I  beat  him  three  games  in  suc- 
cession," responds  Mr.  Valentine,  complacently,  twisting 
the  ends  of  his  mustache.  It  has  grown  in  thirteen 
years,  is  long  and  drooping,  and  inky  black.  "  It  grew 
monotonous  after  that." 

Thirteen  years  have  not  changed  this  gentleman  much, 
except  in  the  matter  of  mustache.  Indeed,  they  have 
not  changed  him  at  all,  have  merely  accented  and  empha- 
sized all  traits,  personal  and  mental,  existing  then.  He 
is  still  tall,  still  thin,  still  dark,  still  with  scant  allow- 
ance of  hair,  with  black,  restless  eyes,  and  thin,  obstin- 
ate mouth  ;  still  elaborate  as  to  dress,  fastidious  in  the 
minutest  details  about  himself,  from  the  glossy  whiteness 
of  his  linen  to  the  dainty-paring  and  purity  of  his  nails. 
He  looks  like  a  man  thoroughly  well  satisfied  with  him- 
self— a  man  who  could  never,  under  any  circumstances, 
imagine  or  own  himself  in  the  wrong. 

"  He  walks  beside  her,  and  casts  a  complacent,  self- 
satisfied,  proprietor-like  glance  over  the  scene.  There 
is  the  sea,  bathed  in  a  glory  of  moonlight ;  there  is  a 
mocking-bird,  singing,  whistling,  twittering,  like  a  whole 
aviary  near ;  there  is  a  whip-poor-will  piping  plain- 
tively in  the  bracken  ;  there  are  the  roses,  and  the  myrtle, 
and  the  orange  trees,  the  passion-flowers,  and  the  jessa- 
mine, scenting  the  night  air  ;  there  is  the  Southern  Cross, 
ablaze  over  their  heads  ;  there  are  warmth,  and  perfume, 
and  beauty  everywhere.  It  dawns  upon  Mr.  Vane  Val- 
entine it  is  a  fine  night.  He  says  so. 

"  Never  saw  such  moonlight,"  he  remarks,  still  com- 
placently, as  if  the  scene  were  gotten  up  especially  for 
his  delectation.  "And  that  mocking-bird — listen  to  the 
fellow.  As  you  say,  aunt,  it  is  much  too  fine  to  go  in." 

"  I  am  not  aware  of   having  said  so,"  shortly  ;  "  on 


LA     VIVANDIERE.  205 

the  contrary,  I  am  going  in  almost  immediately — Vane  !" 
abruptly. 

"  Yes,  aunt," 

"  When  did  you  hear  from  your  friend — what  is  his 
name  ? — Farrar." 

"Paul  Farrar?"  surprised.  "Oh,  not  forages.  Not 
since  that  time,  years  ago,  when  he  wrote  to  know " 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  pulls  himself  up  short.  "If 
that  girl  might  be  christened,"  is  what  he  was  going  to 
say.  But  madam  knows  nothing  of  that,  and  it  is  one  of 
the  cases  where  ignorance  is  bliss. 

"Well?"  she  says,  sharply;  "finish  your  sentence — 
since  when  ?" 

"Not  for  years.  He  is  in  Russia — got  an  appoint- 
ment of  some  kind  in  St.  Petersburg,  and  naturally — 
moving  about  as  we  always  are,"  in  a  slight  tone  of 
grievance,  for  Mr.  Valentine  does  not  like  a  nomadic  ex- 
istence— "  it  is  not  likely  we  should  keep  up  a  very  brisk 
correspondence.  Besides,  I  hate  letter-writing." 

"Indeed!"  sarcastically;  "since  when?  I  should 
never  imagine  it,  seeing  the  voluminous  epistles  that  go 
to  England  by  every  mail." 

"  I  write  to  my  sister  Dorothea  and  my  cousin  Camilla, 
of  course,"  rather  stiffly. 

A  pause. 

What  is  coming?  Something  out  of  the  common,  he 
sees,  in  the  furtive  glance  he  casts  at  her  absorbed  face. 
She  breaks  the  pause  abruptly. 

"  How  often  do  you  hear  from  that  girl  ?" 

"  That  girl  ?"  bewildered.  "  Do  you  mean  my  cousin 
Camilla " 

"  I  mean,"  striking  her  stick  sharply  on  the  ground, 
and  pausing  in  her  walk,  "I  mean  that  girl  you  sent  to 
Canada  with  the  man  Farrar,  thirteen  years  ago." 

"Oh  !"  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  catches  his  breath.  The 
bursting  of  a  bomb  at  his  feet  could  hardly  have  startled 
him  more.  "That  girl  !  Snowball  Trillon." 


2o6  LA     VIVANDIERE. 

"  If  that  is  what  she  is  called.  I  mean,"  with  icy  dis- 
tinctness, "  my  granddaughter." 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  whitens  under  his  lemon-hued 
skin — turns  the  livid  hue  of  the  moonlight  on  the  white- 
washed house-front. 

"Your  granddaughter!"  with  equal  iciness.  "Who 
is  to  tell  if  she  is  your  granddaughter  ?  The  word  of  the 
woman  who  called  herself  her  mother  was  not  worth  much, 
I  fancy.  The  girl,  Snowball  Trillon,  is  in  Canada  still." 

A  frigid  stare  follows  his  answer,  and  Madam  Valen- 
tine's "  stony  stares"  are  things  not  pleasant  to  meet. 
Then  she  laughs  contemptuously. 

"  This  is  your  latest  metier,  is  it,  to  doubt  her  identity  ? 
Well,  I  am  not  disposed  to  doubt  it,  and  that  I  take  it  is 
the  main  point.  I  mean  Snowball  Trillon,  if  you  like. 
Where  is  she  in  Canada?  Be  more  definite,  my  good 
Vane,  if  you  please." 

"The  place  is  called  St.  Gildas.  She  lives,  I  believe, 
on  an  island  near  that  town,  in  the  family  of  one  Dr. 
Macdonald." 

He  is  recovering.  The  shock  has  been  so  utterly  un- 
expected that  he  has  been  stunned  for  a  moment,  but'  his 
customary  cold  caution  is  returning.  He  draws  a  long 
breath,  and  his  pulse  quickens  a  little  its  methodical 
beat.  What — what  does  this  mean  ? 

"  Do  you  ever  hear  from  her  ?" 

"  Never  directly.  The  money  you  allotted  for  her 
maintenance  is  drawn  semi-annually  by  Dr.  Macdonald 
— was  drawn  two  months 'ago,  and  she  was  then  reported 
in  the  doctor's  letter  as  alive  and  well.  That  is  all  I 
know." 

"  Alive  and  well,"  slowly,  gladly,  thoughtfully,  "  and 
sixteen  years  old,  is  she  not?  I  wonder — I  wonder," 
dreamily,  "what  she  is  like?" 

"She  is  sixteen  years  old,"  coldly ;  "of  her  looks  I 
know  nothing — nor  of  her." 

"  It  is  my  wish  then,"  says  madam,  asserting  herseli 


LA     VIVANDIERE.  207 

suddenly  and  heartily,  "  that  you  should  know  some- 
thing. It  is  my  own  intention  to  know  a  great  deal.  I 
have  been  culpably  ignorant  too  long.  Write  to  this  Dr. 
Macdonald,"  bringing  down  the  ebony  cane  with  an 
authoritative  bang — "ask  him  for  all  information  re- 
garding this  young  lady,  my  grandchild,"  loftily,  and 
looking  him  full  in  the  face  with  her  dark  piercing  eyes, 
"  her  health,  habits,  education,  and  so  on.  Tell  him  to 
inclose  a  photograph  of  her  in  his  reply." 

"  Yes,  madam.  Anything  else  ?  Shall  I  write  to- 
night ?" 

"  To-night  or  to-morrow,  as  you  please.  Tell  him  to 
send  the  photograph  without  fail.  I  am  curious  to  see 
what  she  is  like.  Tell  him  to  answer  at  once — at  once!" 

"You  shall  be  obeyed.  Now,  what  the  devil,"  says 
Mr.  Vane  Valentine  to  himself,  "does  this  mean?" 

It  means  no  good  to  him — that  at  least  is  certain. 
For  a  very  long  time,  hour  after  hour,  that  night,  he  sits 
smoking  cigars  at  his  open  window,  and  gazing  blankly 
at  the  fair  southern  moon.  He  must  obey ;  there  is  no 
help  for  that.  If  balked  in  the  slightest,  this  headstrong, 
foolish,  ridiculous  old  kinswoman  of  his  is  capable  of 
going  in  person,  before  another  month  is  over  her  ven- 
erable head,  straight  to  St.  Gildas,  and  seeing  for  her- 
self. The  only  wonder  is,  being  curiouj  on  the  subject 
at  all,  that  she  has  not  done  so  already. 

There  is  still  one  hope.  The  girl  may  not  in  any 
way — supposing  her  even  to  be  his  daughter — resemble 
the  late  George  Valentine.  Like  mother  like  son,  thinks 
Mr.  Valentine,  savagely  biting  the  top  off  a  fresh  cigar, 
as  if  he  thought  it  were  madam's  head — a  precious  pair 
of  fools  both  !  In  point  of  fact,  he  is  certain,  although 
he  has  never  seen  George  Valentine,  nor  even  a  picture 
of  him,  that  she  does  not  resemble  him.  But  if  this  old 
lady — falling  into  her  dotage,  no  doubt — should  fancy  a 
resemblance,  and  be  besotted  enough  to  send  for  her,  and 
try  to  put  her  in  his  place — Mr.  Valentine  expresses  hit 


2o8  LA     VIVANDIERE. 

feelings  just  here  by  a  deep  oath,  ground  out  between 
fiercely  closed  teeth.  When  it  comes  to  that — let  them 
look  to  it !  He  is  not  to  be  whistled  down  the  wind, 
after  all  these  years,  as  his  idiotic  old  relative  shall  find 
to  her  cost ! 

But  he  writes  the  letter — a  slow  and  labored  bit  of 
composition  ;  and  as  he  writes,  a  cold,  cruel,  crafty  smile 
dawns,  in  a  diabolical  fashion,  around  his  hard,  thin  lips. 

"If  they  answer  this — if  they  send  the  photograph 
after  this,  then  " — the  smile  intensifies  as  he  folds  and 
seals  the  epistle — "  if  that  girl  has  the  spirit  of  a  worm, 
she  will  fling  this  letter  into  the  fire,  and  send  an  answer, 
per  return  post,  that  will  effectually  cure  madam  of  her 
folly !" 

Now,  Mistress  Snowball  Trillon,  or  Dolores  Mac- 
donald,  as  you  please,  has,  as  we  know,  the  spirit  of 
many  worms — has  a  pride  and  a  temper,  alas !  fully 
equal  to  Mr.  Vane  Valentine's  own. 

Dr.  Macdonald,  profoundly  surprised,  deeply  hurt, 
and  a  little  disgusted  with  the  writer,  puts  the  precious 
epistle,  without  a  word,  into  her  hands,  and  the  blue  eyes 
flash  lightning  fires  of  wrath  as  she  reads. 

"  It  is  rather — rather  offensive,"  the  gentle  old  doctor 
says.  "  You  need  not  send  the  photograph  if  you  like, 
Snowball,  my  dear." 

For  a  moment  a  storm  seems  imminent  in  the  flushed 
cheeks  and  flashing  eyes,  then  a  wicked  smile  dawns  on 
the  rosy  young  mouth,  a  sparkle  that  forebodes  badness 
to  come  creeps  into  the  azure  orbs,  and  quite  quenches 
the  fires  of  wrath. 

"Oh!  I  don't  mind,"  she  says,  cheerfully.  "A  little 
impertinence  more  or  less,  what  does  it  signify  ?  Beg- 
gars mustn't  be  choosers.  I'll  send  it.  Write  the  letter, 
and  when  it  is  ready  I'll  slip  the  photo  in,  and  row  my- 
self over  to  St.  Gildas  this  very  afternoon  and  post  it 
By  return  mail,  don't  you  see,"  he  says. 

"  And  I  hope  he'll  like  me  when  he  sees  me,"  thinks 


LA     riVANDIERE.  209 

Miss  Trillon,  going  up  to  her  maiden  bower  under  the 
eaves  ;  "but  I  am  harassed  by  doubts." 

She  takes  from  a  drawer  a  couple  of  photographs, 
tinted,  and,  as  works  of  art,  worthy  of  commendation 
They  represent  a  young  person  in  the  striking,  not  to  say 
startling,  dress  of  a  vivandiere — a  short  petticoat  of 
brilliant  dye,  baggy  trousers,  a  blue  blouse,  a  red  cap 
set  rakishly  on  one  side  of  the  head,  a  little  wine  barrel 
slung  over  the  shoulder,  pistols  in  the  belt,  two  little 
hands  thrust  there  also,  a  smile  of  unutterable  sauciness 
on  the  face.  And  the  young  person  is  Snowball  !  As  a 
picture  nothing  can  be  more  effective — as  a  portrait  of  a 
stately  old  lady's  granddaughter,  nothing  could  well  be 
more  reprehensible.  Last  winter  some  charades  were 
acted  at  the  house  of  Mile.  Innocente  Desereaux  ;  Snow- 
ball appeared  in  one  of  them  as  a  vivandiere,  and  the 
brother  of  Mile.  Innocente,  a  photograph  artist,  had 
been  charmed,  and  insisted  on  immortalizing  her  in  the 
dress  next  day.  The  photographs  have  since  lain  here, 
too  outre  to  be  shown  ;  and  it  is  one  of  these  under 
which  she  pertly  writes,  "a  votre  service,  monsieur,"  and 
dispatches  to  Mr.  Vane  Valentine. 

The  interval  between  sending  and  receiving  is  about 
eight  days,  and  eight  more  anxious  and  uncomfortable 
days  Mr.  Valentine  never  remembers  to  have  spent. 
What  is  in  madam's  mind  ? — what  does  she  mean  ? — why 
does  she  want  the  photograph  ? — what  change  of  dynasty 
does  this  forebode  ?  Does  she — can  she — mean  for  one 
moment  to  throw  him  overboard  for  this  upstart  ?  Does 
she  dream  he  will  permit  it  ?  Is  he  a  puppet,  to  be 
taken  up  and  played  with  awhile,  and  then  thrown  aside, 
as  the  whim  seizes  her?  He  will  show  her  whether  he  is 
or  not.  Let  her  expose  her  hand,  and  then  he  will  balk 
her  new  game. 

Meantime  there  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  wait,  and 
waiting  is,  he  finds,  the  hardest  work  in  the  world. 

She,  too,  is  waiting.     The  subject  is  never  resumed— 


210  LA     VIVANDIERE. 

it  is  the  "  lull  before  the  storm."  Is  it  to  be  a  drawn 
battle  between  these  two  proud,  unbending  people  from 
thenceforth  ?  It  all  depends  on  this  girl — this  gauche, 
unformed  girl  of  sixteen.  If  the  photograph  should  by 
any  chance  resemble  ever  so  little  that  dead  George — 
well,  if  it  does,  and  she  takes  the  girl  up,  she  shall  see  ! 

It  comes — the  letter  with  the  Canadian  postmark,  and 
something  hard  within. 

His  hand  shakes  as  he  opens  it,  and  the  carte  drops 
out. 

It  is  a  moment  before  he  can  summon  resolution 
enough  to  take  it  up,  but  he  does  at  last,  and  then-  —  ! 

The  letter  is  from  Dr.  Macdonald,  it  is  brief,  civil, 
but  cool.  Mile.  Trillon  is  well,  is  quite  happy,  has 
been  well  and  carefully  educated,  and  has  no  desire 
whatever  to  change  her  home. 

He  incloses  her  photograph,  by  which  Mr.  Valentine 
will  see  she  is  also  extremely  pretty  ;  and  he  is  his  re- 
spectfully, Angus  Macdonald. 

Madam  Valentine  is  in  her  sitting-room.  A  storm  of 
wind  and  rain  is  sweeping  over  the  fair  landscape,  and 
blotting  it  out. 

She  sits  watching  it  drearily,  when  Mr.  Vane  Valen- 
tine, with  a  more  assured  look  and  step  than  he  has 
used  of  late,  comes  into  the  room,  an  open  letter  in  his 
hand. 

"  It  is  the  letter  from  Canada,  and  the  picture,"  he 
says. 

He  lays  both  in  her  lap. 

His  face  is  in  good  order,  but  there  is  an  impercep- 
tible thrill  of  triumph  in  his  tone. 

He  does  not  go — he  stands  and  waits. 

A  slight  flush  rises  to  her  face,  but  she  meets  his  look 
with  one  of  frigid  reserve. 

"  Well  ?"  she  says,  inquiringly. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  open  the  letter  ?  The 
photograph  is  inside." 


LA     VI VANDIERE.  2 1 1 

"  At  my  leisure.  I  will  retain  the  picture.  You  need 
not  take  the  trouble  to  wait !" 

It  is  a  curt  dismissal  ;  a  flush  of  anger  rises  over  his 
sallow  face. 

He  has  hoped  to  see  her  face  when  first  she  glances 
at  the  audacious  photograph.  He  is  destined  to  be  dis- 
appointed. But  he  knows  the  look  of  angry  surprise 
and  disappointment  that  will  follow,  all  the  same.  With- 
out a  word  he  goes. 

Then,  with  fingers  that  shake  with  eagerness,  she 
snatches  the  picture  out,  looks  at  it,  drops  it  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  anger,  amaze,  dismay. 

What !  another  dancing  girl !  A  juvenile  copy  of  the 
bold,  blue-eyed  circus  woman,  who  had  confronted  her 
that  September  afternoon,  thirteen  years  ago. 

And  what  outrageous  costume  is  this  ?  what  defiant 
smile  ?  what  pert  words  written  underneath? 

Is  this,  indeed,  her  grandchild? — hers?  Does  the 
proud  Valentine  blood  flow  in  the  heart  of  such  a  frivo- 
lous creature  as  this  ? 

What  insolence  to  send  it — it  is  a  direct  affront.  And 
yet — what  a  pretty  face  !  What  a  brightly  pretty,  piquant 
face.  Not  a  bold  one,  either — only  saucy,  girlish,  full  of 
fun  and  healthful  glee. 

She  looks  at  it  again,  reluctantly  at  first,  relentingly 
after  a  little — then,  long  and  earnestly. 

No,  there  is  no  look  of  George — none  whatever;  it 
is  a  youthful  repetition  of  that  other  face  she  remembers 
so  well — only  with  the  brazen  recklessness  left  out. 

She  must  be  very  pretty  ;  she  might,  with  proper  train- 
ing, become  a  lovely  girl.  What  a  wealth  of  rippling 
ringlets ;  what  charming  features ;  what  an  exquisite 
dimpled  mouth  !  Only  the  dress — and  yet — that  might 
be  only  a  girl's  thoughtless  joke. 

The  letter  is  all  that  can  be  desired,  formal  if  you 
will — a  trifle  cold,  but  perfectly  respectful.  What  if 
Vane  Valentine  has  couched  his  request  in  impertinent 


2i2  A    FLYING     VISIT. 

words — he  is  qtiite  capable  of  it,  and  this  defiant  picture 
is  sent  in  reprisal  ?  She  hits  the  truth,  and  suspects  that 
she  hits  it ;  she  guesses,  quite  accurately,  what  her  heir 
is  feeling  on  this  subject. 

"  I  will  disappoint  him  yet,"  she  thinks,  vindictively, 
"  in  spite  of  the  picture." 

She  meets  him  at  dinner,  some  hours  later,  without  a 
trace  of  any  emotion,  except  her  usual  severe  reserve  of 
manner,  and  hands  him  back  the  letter. 

"  Well  ?"  he  asks,  with  rather  a  grim  smile.  "  And  the 
picture — how  do  you  find  that  ?" 

"  I  find  it  a  trifle  eccentric,"  she  returns.  "  No,  James 
no  soup.  Taken  in  a  fancy  dress,  I  imagine.  A  pretty 
girl,  and  very  like  her  mother.  Yes,  James,  the  rock- 
fish,"  to  the  man-servant.  "  If  you  please,  my  good  Vane, 
I  will  keep  it." 

No  more  is  said.  But  the  edge  of  the  wedge  is  well 
in,  and,  with  a  feeling  akin  to  despair,  Vane  Valentine 
realizes  that  his  letter  and  fatal  photograph  are  but  the 
beginning  of  the  end. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 
A  FLYING  VISIT. 

N  April  evening.  Westward  the  sun  is  dipping 
in  Bay  Chalette  its  very  red  face,  and  the 
cool,  greenish  waters  take  on  roseate  hues  in 
consequence,  that  by  no  means  belong  to 
them.  A  soft,  pinkish,  windless  haze,  indeed,  encircles 
as  in  a  halo  bay  and  town,  Isle  Perdrix,  and  the  boats  of 
the  Gaspereaux  fishers,  out  in  force,  for  is  not  this 
"  Gaspereaux  Month,"  the  silver  harvest  of  these  toilers 
of  the  sea?  "Ships,  like  lilies,  lie  tranquilly"  at  the 


A     FLYING     VISIT.  213 

i  Gildas  wharves  ;  the  quaint  hilly  town  itself 
rests>  a1!  ailush  in  the  bath  of  ruby  sunlight,  the  sound  of 
evening  bells — the  Angelus  ringing  out  from  Villa  des 
Anges-  floats  sweetly  over  the  hush,  until  listening,  you 
imagine  yourself  for  the  moment  in  some  far-off,  old- 
world  city  of  France. 

Isle  Perdrix  rests,  lik»  the  rocky  emerald  it  is,  in  its 
lapis  laiuli  setting,  its  beacon  already  lit,  and  sending 
its  golden  stream  of  light  far  over  the  peaceful  sea. 

It  is  at  this  witching  hour,  of  an  April  day,  that  a 
traveler  stands  on  the  St.  Gildas  shore,  and  waits  for  the 
ferry-boat  to  come  and  take  him  over  to  the  island. 

"You  see,  there  ain't  no  regular  ferry,  as  you  may 
say,  betwixt  this  and  Dree  Island,"  the  landlady  ex- 
plains, at  the  little  inn  where  he  stops  to  make  known 
his  wishes  ;  "  and  there  ain't  no  regular  traffic.  There's 
only  the  doctor's  family  and  old  Tim,  that  lives  on  the 
place  for  good  like,  and  they  rows  over  themselves  when 
they  come  back  and  forrid,  which  is  every  day  for  that 
matter.  We  blows  a  horn  when  strangers  come,  and 
then  old  Tim,  if  he  ain't  too  busy,  comes  across  and 
takes  'em  off.  I'll  blow  the  horn  for  you  now,  sir." 

"  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep,"  quotes  the 
gentleman,  with  a  touch  of  humor.  " '  But  will  they 
come  when  we  call  them  ? '  It's  a  toss  up  then  whether 
old  Tim  comes  or  not,  madam  ?" 

"  Jest  so,  sir.  You  takes  your  chance.  But  the 
light's  lit  I  see,  so  he  ain't  like  to  be  none  so  busy  that 
he  can't  come.  For  he's  that  near — old  Tim  is,  and  that 
fond  of  turning  a  penny,  that  he  never  misses  a  fare  if 
he  can  help  it." 

She  lifts  to  her  lips  a  sea-shell,  and  blows  a  blast  that 
might  wake  old  Charon  himself  and  bring  him  across  the 
Styx. 

"You  wait  here  a  little,  sir,"  she  says.  "Old  Tim 
will  hear  that,  if  he's  a  mind  to  come.  If  you  don't  see 
him  in  fifteen  minutes  you  won't  see  him  at  all." 


214  A     FLYING     VISIT. 

"Humph  !"  says  the  traveler,  "primitive  customs  ob- 
tain here  upon  my  word  !  I  wonder  if  the  other  aborig- 
ines are  like  these  two  ?" 

But  he  stands  and  waits.  Many  boats  glide  swiftly 
past,  the  red  sunlight  glinting  on  brown  oar  blades,  or 
white  sails.  One  boat  in  particular  he  notices ;  so 
pretty,  so  white,  so  dainty  is  it — a  name  in  gilt  letters 
on  the  stern  ;  he  cannot  read  it  from  where  he  stands. 
It  is  manned  by  two  youths ;  young  men,  perhaps,  and 
one  girl.  The  girl  and  one  of  the  young  men  row,  the 
third  steers,  all  are  singing.  The  spirited  refrain  of  the 
Canadian  Boat  Song  reaches  him  where  he  stands  : 

"  Row,  brothers,  row ,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight  is  past." 

At  the  sound  of  the  horn  they  turn  simultaneously  to 
look,  and  the  traveler  in  his  turn  takes  a  long  look  at  the 
girl,  who  handles  her  oar  with  a  skill  and  ease  that  only 
long  practice  can  have  given.  A  pretty,  fair  girl  in  a 
suit  of  yachting  costume  of  dark  blue  flannel,  and  broad 
white  braid  trimmings,  a  sailor  hat  of  coarse  straw,  and 
a  redundance  of  very  light,  very  loose  hair.  She  rests 
on  her  oar,  after  that  look  at  him,  and  addresses  the 
steersman.  A  brief  discussion  follows — the  twain  who 
row  seem  to  urge  some  point,  to  which  the  third  objects, 
but  the  majority  carry  the  question.  Instinctively  the 
traveler  feels  he  is  the  subject  of  the  consultation  ;  per- 
haps they  know  he  wishes  to  visit  the  island,  and  are 
good-naturedly  disposed  to  take  the  place  of  the  tedious 
Tim.  His  conjecture  proves  to  be  correct  ;  the  pretty 
white  boat  is  headed  for  the  St.  Gildas  shore,  is  run 
sharply  up  on  the  sands,  and  the  steersman,  raising  him- 
self from  his  recumbent  position,  somewhat  indolently 
touches  his  cap,  and  speaks. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir.     You  want  to  go  to  Dree  Island  ?" 
"  If  I  can  get  there — yes.     The  good  lady  who  keeps 
the  inn,  blew  a  blast  that  might  have  raised  the  dead, 
but  it  has  not  raised  the  ferryman  of  this  river." 


A     FLYING     VISIT.  215 

"If  you  like  to  come  with  us,  we  will  take  you." 

"Ah!  thanks  very  much,"  availing  himself  with 
alacrity  of  the  offer.  "  You  are  most  kind.  But  will  it 
not  take  you  out  of  your  way  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  we  were  just  going  there.  We 
have  only  been  drifting  about.  Rush  off,  Johnny.  If 
you  like  to  steer,  Snowball,  I'll  take  your  oar.  You 
ought  to  be  tired  by  this  time." 

Snowball !  The  traveler  gives  a  great  and  sudden 
start,  and  sits  down  on  the  thwart  with  more  precipita- 
tion than  grace. 

"Thank  you,  Rene,  dear,"  responds  the  pretty  girl,  in 
the  yachting  suit,  with  much  demureness.  "I  would 
row  until  my  arms  dropped  off,  I  am  sure,  sooner  thftn 
tire  your  poor  dear  muscles.  No.  Johnny  and  I  will 
take  Boule-de-neige  home.  Come  on,  Johnny." 

Johnny  comes  on.  The  boat  glides  off  like  a  great 
swan,  out  into  the  river,  propelled  by  two  pair  of  strong, 
willing  young  arms.  The  sun  has  quite  dipped  out  of 
sight  by  this  time,  and  the  moon,  "  bright  regent  of  the 
heavens,"  floats  up  in  pearly  luster.  The  long,  mystic, 
silvery  twilight  of  northern  climes  wraps  them  in  its 
dreamy  haze. 

"A  blazing  red  sunset,  Snowball,"  says  the  young 
gentleman  addressed  as  "  Johnny,"  a  strikingly  hand- 
some big  fellow  of  eighteen  or  more,  with  a  pair  of 
large,  deep,  sea-gray  eyes.  "You  will  have  a  capital 
day  for  your  trip  to  Moose  Head  to-morrow.  Is  Inno- 
cente  Desereaux  going?" 

"  Of  course,"  responds  the  pretty  girl,  promptly,  "and 
Armand — but  he  goes  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"  Why  a  matter  of  course  ?"  demands,  rather  peremp- 
torily, the  other  young  gentleman,  darker,  slighter, 
older  than  "Johnny."  "  You  must  be  fond  of  the  society 
of  fools,  Snowball,  when  you  take  so  readily  to  the  con- 
tinual companionship  of  Armand  Desereaux." 

"  A  fellow  feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind,"  quotes 


216  A     FLYING     VISIT. 

Mile.  Snowball,  still  demurely.  "I  get  so  overpowered 
with  intellect  and  'tall  talking,'  Rene,  when  you  are  at 
home,  that,  do  you  know,  Armand's  mild  imbecilities  are 
a  positive  relief.  Besides,  he  is  so  very,  very  good-look- 
ing, poor  fellow.  Did  you  ever  notice  his  dark,  pathetic 
eyes  ?" 

There  is  a  disgusted  growl  from  the  austere-looking 
M.  Rene — a  smothered  laugh  from  Johnny. 

"  Exactly  like  the  eyes  of  a  pathetic  poodle,  when  he 
stands  on  his  hind  legs  and  begs  !"  this  latter  says.  "  I 
have  noticed  his  dark  pathetic  eyes,  Snowball,  and 
always  feel  like  taking  him  gently  and  sweetly  by  the 
collar  to  the  nearest  butcher's.  They're  ever  so  much,  in 
expression,  like  old  Tim's  little  terrier's,  Brandy." 

It  is  an  impertinent  speech,  but,  her  back  being 
turned  to  Rene,  the  young  lady  rewards  it  with  her 
sweetest  smile.  And  her  smile  is  very  sweet.  She  is, 
without  exception,  the  prettiest  girl,  the  stranger  thinks, 
he  has  ever  seen. 

Whatever  other  opinion  may  be  held  of  Snowball 
Trillon,  there  can  be  but  one  on  the  subject  of  her  beauty. 
No  eyes  more  coldly  critical,  better  disposed  to  find  fault, 
could  easily  be  found ;  but  fault  there  simply  seems  to 
be  none.  He  sits  at  his  leisure  and  takes  the  picture  in. 
She  appears  to  regard  him  no  more  than  the  thwart  on 
which  he  sits.  The  head  is  small,  and  set  with  the  much- 
admired  "  stag-like  "  poise  on  the  fair,  firm  throat — a 
head  crowned  with  a  chevelure  doree,  such  as  he  has  never 
looked  on  before.  The  figure  is  tall,  very  erect,  very 
slender,  as  becomes  sixteen  years,  its  contour  even  now 
giving  promise  of  getting  well  over  that  with  a  dozen 
more  years.  The  face  is  oval,  the  eyes  of  turquois  blue — 
blue  to  their  very  depths  ;  fearless,  flashing,  fun-loving, 
wide-open  eyes.  A  complexion  of  flawless  fairness,  white 
teeth,  and  a  rounded  dimpled  chin.  And — he  thinks  this 
with  an  inward  shudder — it  is  also  like  a  living  likeness 
of  a  waxen,  dead  face,  and  rigid  eyes  of  the  same  forget- 


A    FLYING     VISIT.  217 

me-not  blue,  seen  once  and  never  to  be  forgotten,  thir- 
teen years  ago  ! 

As  he  sits  and  stares  his  fill,  he  is  quite  unconscious 
that  some  one  else  is  staring  at  him,  and  staring  with  a 
frown  that  deepens  with  every  instant.     It  is  the  young 
man  who  steers,  whose  dark  brows  are  knitted  angrily  i 
under  the  visor  of  his  cap. 

"  Confound  the  fellow  !"  he  is  thinking,  with  inward 
savagery ;  "  one  would  think  she  was  sitting  to  him  for 
her  portrait !  Hang  his  impudence  !  Snowball  !"  au- 
thoritatively ;  "  you  have  handled  that  oar  long  enough. 
Come  and  take  my  place,  and  give  it  to  me." 

Snowball  looks  at  him,  and  reads  in  his  face  that  he 
means  to  be  obeyed.  In  his  place  she  will  be  out  of  eye- 
shot of  the  ill-bred  stranger,  unless  he  has  eyes  in  the 
bark  of  his  head. 

There  are  some  tones  of  Rene's  voice  Snowball  never 
cares  to  disobey  ;  this  is  one.  Perhaps,  too,  she  suspects. 
She  gets  up  obediently,  smiling  saucily  in  his  darkling 
face,  and  takes  the  stern  seat. 

Mr.  Vane  Valentine  comes  to  himself  at  once,  and  is 
conscious  that  he  has  given  the  dark  and  dignified  young 
Monsieur  Rene  cause  of  offense.  He  hastens  by  pleasant 
commonplaces  to  make  his  peace. 

"  Very  interesting  town,  St.  Gildas  —  quaint,  old 
world,  and  that.  Is  that  a  Martello  tower  he  sees  over 
yonder,  on  these  heights  ?  Ah !  rare  birds,  these  round 
towers — built,  no  doubt,  in  times  of  French  and  British 
warfare.  Reminds  him  of  Dinan,  in  Brittany,  with  its 
Angelus  bell,  and  its  convents,  and  priests  in  the  streets, 
dressed  in  soutanes.  Yes  (to  Johnny),  he  has  been  abroad  ; 
has  been  a  great  traveler  now  for  years.  Charming 
scenery,  this !  Is  that  Isle  Perdrix,  with  the  beacon 
lights  shining  ?  A  pretty  island — very  pretty,  no  doubt. 
They  know  Isle  Perdrix  well  ?" 

"  Well  enough,  since  we  live  there,"  Johnny  answers, 
with  a  shrug  ;  "too  well,  we  think  sometimes.  Life  on 


2i8  A     FLYING     VISIT. 

an  island,  be  it  never  so  charming,  is  apt  to  grow  a  stale 
affair  after  a  score  of  years.  We  are  Dr.  Macdonald's 
sons,  and  he  is  at  home,  if  you  want  to  see  him.  It's  not 
much  of  a  show  place,  Dree  Island,  but  tourists  mostly 
do  it.  If  you  don't  wish  particularly  to  return  to-night, 
sir,  my  father  will  be  happy  to  offer  you  a  room." 

Johnny  makes  this  hospitable  proposal,  in  much  sim- 
plicity, quite  ignoring  his  brother's  warning  frown. 

Rene  has  taken  a  sudden  dislike  and  distrust  of  this 
dark,  staring  stranger,  and  his  patronizing  talk.  He 
may  spend  his  own  shining  hours — and  he  does  spend  a 
good  many  of  them — in  judicious  repression  of  Miss 
Trillon,  but  he  is  singularly  intolerant  of  any  other 
male  creature  presuming  to  take  the  smallest  liberty. 

He  sits  absolutely  silent,  until  they  land,  and  then 
restrains  Snowball,  by  a  look,  from  leaving  her  place. 

"  We  will  row  down  as  far  as  Cape  Pierre,"  he  says, 
peremptorily,  "the  evening  is  much  too  fine  to  go  in. 
Tim,"  to  that  aged  retainer,  appearing  on  the  shore,  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  dog 
Brandy  at  his  heels,  "  show  this  gentleman  up  to  the 
cottage,  will  you  ?" 

And  then  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  finds  himself  on  the 
shore  of  Isle  Perdrix,  old  Tim  inspecting  him,  with  two 
rheumy,  red  eyes,  Brandy  smelling  in  an  alarming  man- 
ner at  the  calves  of  his  legs,  and  the  Boule-de-neige  float- 
ing like  a  fairy  bark  down  the  moonlit  stream. 

"Two  handsome  young  fellows,  my  friend,"  he  re- 
marks to  Tim,  following  that  faithful  henchman  up  the 
rocky  paths. 

"  Faix  ye  may  say  that.  I'm  sayin',  ye  may  well  say 
that.  Divil  their  aquil  ye'll  find  anywhere  in  these  parts. 
Av  ye  want  to  stan'  well  wid  the  owl  docther,  ye'll  spake 
a  civil  word  for  the  byes.  I  say  ye'll " 

"And  a  very  pretty  girl,"  interrupts  the  stranger, 
careless/ y.  "Their  sister,  I  take  it?  although  she  doesn't 
resemble  them." 


A    FLYING     VISIT.  219 

Timothy  groans. 

"The  gerrel  !  O  well,  thin,  'tis  nothing  bad  I'll  be 
sayin'  av  the  gerrel,  but  upon  me  honor  and  conscience, 
'tis  nothin"  good  anybody  can  say  !  The  divilment  av 
that  gerrel — the  thricks  and  the  capers  av  her — mortial 
man  cudn't  be  up  to.  No,  thin,  she  isn't  their  shister, 
not  a  dhrop's  blood  to  thim,  but  a  sort  o'  fonlin  the  ould 
docther's  bringin'  up.  I'm  sayin' — arrah  shure  here's 
the  docther  for  ye  himsel." 

Dr.  Macdonald  appears,  and  Mr.  Valentine  approaches, 
and  presents  himself. 

The  presentation  is  not  so  facile  a  matter  as  he  usually 
finds  it,  for  the  reason  that  he  has  made  up  his  mind  not 
to  give  his  name.  But  the  gentle,  genial  old  doctor  is 
simplicity  itself — he  sees  a  stranger  at  his  gate,  and  asks 
no  more.  To  give  him  of  his  best,  and  ask  no  questions, 
is  his  primitive  and  obsolete  idea  of  hospitality.  Mr. 
Valentine  is  invited  in,  is  refreshed,  and  pressed  to  spend 
the  night,  and  accepts  graciously  the  invitation.  Dr. 
Macdonald  personally  offers  to  show  him  over  the  island, 
seen  at  its  most  picturesque  by  this  light,  relates  its 
history — a  tragic  history,  too,  of  bloodshed  once  upon  a 
time,  of  plague  later,  of  terror  and  sudden  death.  Nine 
tolls  from  the  steeples  of  St.  Gildas  ;  the  little  island,  all 
bathed  in  moonlight,  lies  as  in  a  sea  of  pearl — a  sea  so 
still  that  the  soft  lapping  of  the  incoming  tide  has  the 
sound  of  a  muffled  roar. 

The  hour,  the  light,  the  silence,  has  a  strange,  eerie 
charm  even  for  this  man,  hard  and  sordid,  and  but  little 
susceptible  to  charm  of  the  kind. 

"  I  cannot  think  what  keeps  my  children,"  the  doctoi 
says,  as  they  turn  to  go  back  ;  "  they  seldom  stay  on  th< 
water  so  late.  The  beauty  of  the  night,  I  suppose 
tempts  them.  Ah  !  they  are  here." 

His  face  lights.  The  white  boat  grates  on  the  sand 
and  the  three  young  people  come  up  the  craggy  slope 


220  A    FLYING     VISIT. 

the  gay  voices  and  young  laughter  coming  to  where  they 
linger  and  wait. 

"  '  Prithee,  why  so  sad,  fond  lover  ?  prithee,  why  so 
pale  ? ' "  sings  the  girl,  and  slips  her  hand  through  Rene's 
arm,  and  gives  him  a  shake.  "'Sure,  if  looking  glad 
won't  win  her,  will  looking  sad  avail?'  •!  don't  know 
whether  I've  got  it  right  or  not,  but  that's  the  sense. 
Johnny,  do  you  know  if  Innocente  Desereaux  has  been 
trampling  on  our  Rene  more  than  usual  to-day?  Be- 
cause  " 

"  Hush  !  can't  you  ?"  retorts  Johnny,  giving  her  a 
fraternal  dig  with  his  elbow,  "don't  you  see?  The  Mar- 
ble Guest !" 

"C<?«-found  him!"  mutters  Rene.  "Snowball,  have 
nothing  to  say  to  him  !  Go  up  to  your  room  and  go  to 
bed.  You  must  be  up  at  dawn  to-morrow  morning,  re- 
member." 

"  Good  little  girls  ought  to  be  in  bed  at  nine  o'clock 
anyhow,"  chimes  in  Johnny,  severely,  "  do,  Snowball. 
Get  some  bread  and  milk  in  the  kitchen,  like  a  little 
dear,  and  Rene  will  go  up  and  tuck  you  in  !" 

Snowball  receives  this  proposal  with  a  shout  of  deri- 
sive laughter,  which  if  a  trifle  louder  than  Mere  Madde- 
lena  would  approve  of,  is  altogether  so  sweet,  so  joyous, 
that  the  two  men  waiting  smile  involuntarily  from  sym- 
pathy. 

"  My  little  girl  !"  the  old  doctor  says,  and  lays  a 
loving  hand  on  her  curls.  She  has  snatched  off  her 
sailor  hat,  and  is  swinging  it  as  she  walks.  "  My  boys, 
and  my  little  Snowball,  sir,"  he  says  to  the  silent  man 
who  stands  beside  him,  "but  you  have  met  before.  You 
rowed  this  gentleman  over,  didn't  you,  Snowball  ?" 

Snowball  drops  the  son's  arm,  and  takes  that  of  the 
father.  The  stranger  falls  back  with  Johnny.  Rene 
walks  on  ahead,  wishing  his  father  and  brother  were  a 
little  more  discriminating  in  their  unbounded  hos- 
pitality. 


A    FLYING     VISIT.  221 

"I  don't  like  that  fellow,"  he  thinks,  "and,"  rather  ir- 
relevantly this.  "Snowball  will  be  asked  to  play  and 
sing  for  his  amusement,  no  doubt !  Hospitality  is  a  vir- 
tue, perhaps — but  even  a  virtue  may  be  carried  to  ex- 
cess." 

He  is  right — Snowball  is  asked  to  sing  and  play,  and 
does  both,  and  quite  brilliantly  too  for  a  schoolgirl  of 
sixteen,  but  then  they  are  musical  or  nothing  at  Villa 
des  Anges.  The  instinct  of  coquetry  is  there,  and  flashes 
out — no,  let  us  be  correct ;  not  coquetry,  malicious  mis- 
chief, and  not  for  the  captivation  of  the  stranger,  but  for 
the  aggravation  of  the  silent  and  watchful  Rene,  who 
sits  in  a  corner,  with  a  ponderous  tome — Lives  of  Art- 
ists and  Sculptors  —  held  up  as  a  shield,  and  keeps 
watch  and  ward  jealously  behind  it. 

'  Did  you  ever  read  the  thrilling  romance  of  the  Dog 
in  the  Manger,  Snowball  ?"  whispers  Johnny,  in  a  pause 
of  one  of  their  concerted  pieces  ;  "just  cast  an  eye  at 
Rene,  and  behold  the  tableau  vivant !" 

The  stranger  observes  as  well  as  the  speaker.  His 
keen,  half-closed,  black  eyes,  take  in  everything.  The 
pretty,  homely,  lamp-lit  parlor,  whose  only  costly  piece 
of  furniture  is  the  piano,  the  white,  benign  head  of  the 
doctor,  the  stalwart,  handsome  Johnny,  like  a  model  for 
an  athlete  or  a  Greek  god,  as  you  choose,  the  silent, 
grave,  intellectual  Rene,  and  the  brilliant  young  beauty, 
with  the  golden  mane  falling  to  her  slim  waist,  the  white 
hands  flying  over  the  keys,  and  the  blue  eyes  laughing 
over  at  Rene's  "grumpy  "  face. 

"Is  that  glum-looking  youth  in  the  corner  in  love 
with  her  ?"  Vane  Valentine  wonders  ;  "  if  so,  why  should 
she  not  marry  him  and  stay  here  all  her  life?  That 
would  be  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty ;  madam  would 
never  trouble  herself  with  the  wife  of  M.  Rene  Mac- 
donald.  And  he  is  handsome  too,  if  he  would  only  light 
up  a  bit,  in  a  different  way,  of  course,  from  his  brother. 
Why  no:?" 


222  A    FLYING     VISIT. 

There  seems  to  be  no  why  not.  \It  seems  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world,  sitting  in  nis  room,  later  on, 
thinking  it  all  over — that  the  girl  should  marry  one  of 
these  Macdonald  lads,  and  become  socially  extinct  for- 
ever after.  If  left  to  themselves  it  will  inevitably  hap- 
pen, but  who  is  to  tell  whither  this  new  craze  may  not 
lead  Madam  Valentine?  She  still  retains  the  picture  of 
the  dashing  little  girl-soldier,  still  broods  in  secret  over 
her  new-found  dream.  The  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost 
— she  is  but  hesitating,  he  feels,  before  taking  the  final 
plunge  that  may  ruin  his  every  hope  for  life. 

He  is  here  now  without  her  knowledge.  He  has 
found  the  spring  heats  down  there  at  St.  Augustine  too 
much  for  him,  and  has  come  North,  ostensibly  to  see 
that  everything  is  gotten  ready  for  her  reception — in 
reality  to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  Isle  Perdrix,  and  behold 
for  himself  this  formidable  rival.  He  has  seen  her,  and 
finds  her  more  dangerous  than  his  worst  fears.  If 
madam  once  looks  on  that  winning  face,  that  enchanting 
smile,  that  youthful  grace,  all  is  over — her  old  heart  will 
be  taken  captive  at  once.  She  does  not  allure  him — he  is 
not  susceptible,  and  his  heart — all  the  heart  he  has  ever 
had  to  give — went  out  of  his  possession  many  years  ago. 

He  rises  late,  descends,  and  finds  breakfast  and  the 
doctor  awaiting  him.  It  is  ten  o'clock.  He  apologizes, 
pleads  late  habits,  and  the  evil  custom  of  sitting  up  late. 
The  doctor  waives  all  excuses — his  time  is  his  guest's. 

"I  must  be  going  before  noon,"  Mr.  Valentine  re- 
marks ;  "  there  is  a  train  leaves  St.  Gildas  about  eleven,  I 
find.  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  hos- 
pitality, my  dear  doctor.  My  visit  to  Isle  Perdrix  will 
long  remain  delightfully  in  my  memory." 

"  Very  pretty  talk,  but  where  the  duse,"  he  is  think- 
ing, "are  the  rest  ?" 

The  doctor  sees  the  wondering  glance. 

"  My  young  people  started  on  an  ex  ;ursion  down  the 


A     FLYING     VISIT.  223 

bay  at  daylight,"  he  says,  "and  will  not  return  before 
night.  They  left  their  adieux  with  me." 

Which  is  a  polite  fiction  on  the  doctor's  part,  no  one 
having  given  the  stranger  within  their  gates  so  much  as 
a  thought.  Well,  it  does  not  signify — he  has  seen  her, 
and  found  her  a  foeman  worthy  his  steel. 

He  departs.  Old  Tim  prosaically  rows  him  on  the 
return  trip,  and  he  takes  the  eleven  express,  and  steams 
out  of  gray  St.  Gildas,  with  the  memory  of  a  sparkling, 
laughing  blonde  face  to  bear  him  company,  "a  dancing 
shape,  an  image  gay,  to  haunt,  bewilder,  and  waylay  "  all 
the  way  he  goes. 

Two  weeks  later.  Madam  Valentine  and  her  attend- 
ants are  located  with  their  penates  in  that  luxurious 
domicile  that  is  called  for  the  time,  "home."  But  the 
end  of  May  has  in  store  for  Mr.  Vane  Valentine  a  still 
greater  change.  Sir  Rupert  Valentine  dies.  It  has  taken 
him  many  years  to  do  it,  but  it  is  done  at  last. 

The  baronet  is  dead — live  the  baronet !  Sir  Rupert 
is  gathered  to  his  fathers,  and  other  relations,  and  Sir 
Vane  steps  into  his  shoes — his  title — his  impoverished 
estate,  his  gray,  ivy-grown,  ancestral  manor.  It  is  sud- 
den at  last  —  is  death  ever  anything  else?  —  and  Miss 
Dorothea  writes  him  to  come  without  delay.  The  family 
solicitor  also  writes,  his  presence  is  absolutely  needed — 
things  are  in  a  terrible  tangle — Sir  Vane  must  come  and 
see  if  the  muddle  can  be  set  straight.  He  lays  those  let- 
ters— his  brown  complexion  quite  chalky  with  emotion — 
before  his  aunt  and  arbiter. 

"  Certainly,  my  good  Vane,  certainly,"  that  great  lady 
says,  with  more  cheerful  alacrity  than  the  melancholy 
occasion  seems  to  demand  ;  "  go  by  all  means,  and  at 
once.  Any  money  that  may  be  needed,  for  repairs,  &c., 
shall  be  forthcoming,  of  course.  Remember  me  to  your 
sister  and  Miss  Camilla  Rooth." 

Time  has  been  when  Vane  Valentine  would  have 
hailed  this  as  the  apex  of  all  his  hopes.  That  time  is  no 


224  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE." 

more.  He  is  torn  with  doubt.  To  leave  Madam  Valen- 
tine and  her  fortune  for  many  weeks — months,  it  may  be; 
who  can,  at  this  critical  juncture,  tell  what  may  not  hap- 
pen in  the  interval  ?  She  may  do  as  she  has  done — she 
may  visit  St.  Gildas.  Once  let  her  see  that  girl  and  all 
is  lost !  What  is  an  empty  title,  a  handful  of  barren 
acres,  a  mortgaged  manor-house,  compared  with  the  for- 
tune he  risks?  But  the  risk  must  be  run.  Madam  her- 
self is  peremptory  in  urging  him  to  go. 

"  The  honor  of  the  family  demands  it,"  she  says,  se- 
verely. "  You  must  go.  Why  do  you  hesitate  ?" 

Ah  !  Why  ?  He  looks  at  her  almost  angrily,  and 
would  "  talk  back  "  if  he  dared.  But  discretion  is  the 
better  part  of  valor — the  risk  must  be  run.  With  a 
gloomy  brow,  and  a  foreboding  spirit,  the  new  Lord  of 
Valentine  and  his  portmanteau  depart. 

And  then,  what  he  most  fears,  comes  straight  to  pass. 
Ere  the  good  ship  that  bears  him  has  plowed  half  the 
Atlantic,  Madam  Valentine,  attended  by  her  maid,  is  on 
her  way,  as  fast  as  express  trains  can  whirl  her,  to  St. 
Gildas,  to  see  with  her  own  eyes  the  original  of  the 
daring  photograph  she  looks  at  every  day. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 
"  LA  REINE  BLANCHE." 

LADY  for  you,  ma  mire" 

So   says   Sister   Humiliana,  and  lays  a 
card    before    Mere    Maddelena,    who    sits 
busily  writing  in  her  bare  little  room.     The 
mother  looks  up,  and  at  the  card,  and  knits  her  brows. 

"  Valentine  ?"  she  says,     "  We  have  no  one  of  that 
name,  my  sister." 


"LA    REINE    BLANCHE?  225 

"No,  my  mother.  Perhaps  it  is  some  one  Avlio  comes 
concerning  a  new  pupil.  She  is  in  the  second  parlor. 
It  is  une  grande  dame,  ma  nitre." 

"  It  is  well,  ma  soeur.     I  will  go." 

Mere  Maddelena  lays  down  her  pen  with  some  reluc- 
tance, for  she  is  very  busy.  To-day  there  are  the  closing 
exercises  of  the  school,  distribution  of  premiums,  ad- 
dresses, graduation  speeches,  awarding  of  gold  medals, 
wreaths,  &c.,  with  music,  and  a  dramatic  performance. 
And  "  His  Grandeur  "  is  coming,  and  many  other  very 
great  personages,  lay  and  ecclesiastical,  among  them  a 
distinguished  English  "milor"  and  his  lady.  All  these 
dignitaries  Mere  Maddelena  has  to  receive  and  entertain  ; 
her  girls  are  to  have  one  last  drilling  in  their  parts — a 
thousand  things  are  before  her.  And  now  she  is  called 
to  waste  her  golden  moments,  in  futile  talk,  it  may  be,  in 
the  second  parlor. 

But  she  goes,  with  her  slow,  stately  step,  a  very  ideal 
lady  abbess,  serene  of  face,  gracious  of  manner — a  very 
gracious  manner — quite  the  mien  of  a  princess.  And 
with  some  right,  too,  for  Mere  Maddelena  once  upon  a 
time  was  a  very  great  lady.  So  long  ago,  so  like  a 
dream  it  seems  to  her  now,  when  it  flits  for  a  moment 
across  her  memory.  In  the  days  of  the  Second  Empire, 
when  the  glory  and  the  splendor  thereof  filled  the  earth, 
no  braver  soldier  marched  to  the  Crimea,  among  the 
legions  of  Louis  Napoleon,  than  Colonel,  the  Count 
de  Rosiere.  Among  all  the  brilliant  ones  of  a  brilliant 
court,  few  outshone  Laure,  Countess  de  Rosiere,  either 
in  beauty,  in  birth,  or  in  high-bred  grace.  She  let  him 
go,  and  mourned  for  her  Fernand,  gayly — he  would  re- 
turn with  the  Cross  of  the  Legion,  a  Marshal  of  France. 
He  did  return — in  his  coffin,  and  his  fair  young  wife  took 
her  bruised  heart  out  of  the  world  and  into  the  cloister. 
At  first  she  only  entered  en  retraite,  in  those  early  days 
of  death  and  despair,  and  there  peace  found  her — a  new 
peace,  that  no  death  could  take  away.  That  was  in  the 
10* 


226  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE." 

dim  past — M£re  Maddelena  is  here  now,  but  undet  the 
serge  of  her  habit,  under  the  humility  of  the  religieusc, 
the  old  court  manners,  the  old  air  iwbley  still  remain.  It 
is  a  very  inspiring  and  graceful  presence  that  enters  the 
"second  parlor"  and  bows  profoundly  to  the  elderly 
lady,  so  richly  robed,  who  sits  therein. 

Madam  Valentine  rises,  and  returns  that  profound 
obeisance,  impressed  at  once  by  the  stately  mien  of  the 
nun. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  she  thinks,  "  these  Frenchwomen 
whether  nuns  or  society  belles,  have  beautiful  manners. 
I  only  hope  she  has  managed  to  instill  a  little  of  her 
high-bred  grace  into  this  girl  I  have  come  to  see." 

"Be  seated,  madame,"  Mere  Maddelena  says,  and 
stands  until  her  guest  has  done  so.  "A  grande  dame, 
truly  !"  she  thinks,  as  their  eyes  meet,  "and  a  handsome 
and  striking  face." 

"  My  name,  perhaps,  may  not  be  unfamiliar  to  you, 
reverend  mother,"  begins  the  lady,  glancing  at  the  card 
the  mother  still  retains  :  "  Valentine." 

"It  is  unpardonable  of  me  if  I  forget,  but — Valen- 
tine ?  No — I  do  not  recall  that,  madame." 

"  And  yet  you  have  had  a  pupil  here  for  many  years, 
bearing  that  name,  have  you  not  ?" 

"  A  pupil  ?  But  no,  madame — no  one  called  Val- 
entine." 

* 

"  Perhaps  then  she  is  called,"  with  some  reluctance, 
"Trillon." 

"  Trillon  ?  Stay  !  Ah  !  but  yes,  madame,  it  is  the 
little  Dolores  whom  you  mean.  The  protegee  of  our 
good  Dr.  Macdonald." 

"  Dolores  ?  She  never  was  called  Dolores  that  7 knew 
of.  Snowball  if  you  like — a  silly  name." 

"  The  same — the  same  !  But  madame  fails  to  recollect 
• — it  was  by  madame's  permission  we  christened  her 
Dolores.  She  was  written  to  on  the  subject  ' 


"LA     REINE    BLANCHE?  227 

"  Was  I  ?  And  when  ?  Who  wrote  ?  I  remember 
nothing  of  it,"  says  Madam  Valentine,  rather  abruptly. 

"It  is  many  years  ago  now,  fully  six  at  least.  Ma- 
dam Macdonald  died,  and  the  little  one  was  sent  to  us. 
She  had  no  name  but  the  so  foolish  one  of  Snowball, 
and  had  never  been  baptized.  Madame  is  aware,"  de- 
precatingly,  "  we  could  not  tolerate  that.  Dr.  Macdonald 
wrote  to  his  very  good  friend  M.  Paul  Farrar,  then  at 
Fayal,  and  M.  Paul — he  wrote  to  you  did  he  not?  Or  a 
member  of  your  family,  perhaps,  for  the  requisite  per- 
mission." 

"Ah-h  !  to  a  member  of  my  family!  I  see,"  says 
madame's  sarcastic  voice. 

"  Permission  came  we  might  do  as  we  pleased.  And 
we  called  the  child  Marie  Dolores.  Is  it  possible, 
madam,  that  this  is  the  first  you  have  heard  of  it  ?" 

"Quite  possible — the  very  first,  my  good  mother. 
But  it  does  not  signify  at  all.  I  prefer  Dolores  to  Snow- 
ball, which,  in  point  of  fact,  is  no  name  at  all.  Well,  it 
is  your  Dolores  then,  that  I  have  come  to  see." 

"  Madame  is ?" 

"  Her  grandmother  !  I  have  never  seen  her  in  my 
life !  You  will  wonder  at  that,  my  mother,  but  her 
father,  my  only  son,  married  against  my  will,  and  to  my 
greai  and  bitter  grief.  He  is  dead  since  many  years  " 
(this  conversation  is  carried  on  in  French),  "  and  his 
death  I  cease  not  to  deplore.  But  toward  his  child  I  did 
not  relent ;  I  banished  her  from  my  sight.  I  sent  her 
here.  I  fatigue  you,  I  fear,  my  good  mother,  with  all 
these  family  details." 

She  speaks  with  a  certain  coldness,  a  certain  haughty 
abruptness  of  manner,  that  she  is  apt  unconsciously  to 
assume  when  forced  to  unveil  ever  so  little  of  her  heart 
to  strangers.  But  Mere  Maddelena's  gentle,  sympathetic 
face  makes  the  task  easy. 

"  Ah  !  but  no,  madame.  I  am  interested.  I  am  sorry, 
It's  all  very  sad  for  you." 


228  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE" 

"  I  grow  an  old  woman,  I  find."  Madam  Valentine 
resumes,  still  in  that  abrupt  tone,  <:and  I  am  lonely.  She 
— this  girl — is  nearer  to  me  than  anything  else  on  earth. 
It  is  natural  I  should  wish  to  see  her,  at  least.  That's 
why  I  am  here." 

"Ah,  madame?"  in  profoundest  sympathy,  "and  once 
having  seen  her,  you  will  love  her  so-  dearly.  It  is  a 
heart  of  gold — it  is  a  child  of  infinite  talent,  and  good- 
ness, and  grace.  A  little  wild  and  joyous,  I  grant  you, 
but  what  will  you — it  is  youth.  And  a  paragon  of 
beauty.  We  do  not  tell  her  that,  you  understand,  but  it 
is  a  loveliness  most  surpassing.  All  Villa  des  Anges 
will  be  desole  if  madame,  la  bonne  maman,  takes  her  away. 
And  next  year  she  is  to  graduate.  Surely  madame  will 
not  take  her  away  !" 

"  If  she  is  what  you  describe  her,  I  surely  will  !"  re- 
plies la  bonne  maman,  decisively.  "  You  paint  a  fascinat- 
ing picture,  my  mother.  Why,  a  girl  like  that,  with  a 
fortune  such  as  I  can  give  her,  may  have  the  world  at 
her  feet.  Sixteen  years  old,  you  say  ?" 

"  Nearer  seventeen,  I  believe,  and  tall  and  most 
womanly  for  her  age.  Ah  !  ma  chere  petite!  how  we  will 
be  sorry  to  lose  you  !  Shall  I  send  for  her,  madame,  that 
you  may  see  for  yourself  ?" 

She  stretches  out  her  hand  to  the  bell,  but  the  other 
stops  her. 

"No,"  she  says,  "wait.  I  do  not  mistrust  your  judg- 
ment, my  mother,  but  I  prefer  to  judge  for  myself.  Let 
me  see  her,  hear  her,  myself  unknown,  first.  How  can  I 
do  this  ?" 

"  Most  easily.  Honor  us  with  your  presence  at  the 
exercises  this  afternoon.  She  is  to  be  crowned  for  excel- 
lence in  music,  and  to  receive  the  second  medal.  She 
afterward  performs  in  a  little  vaudeville  we  have  dram- 
atized ourselves  from  history,  "  La  Reine  Blanche  "  we 
call  it.  When  all  is  over,  the  pupils  mingle  with  the 


"LA    REINE    BLANCHE."  229 

guests  in  the  parlors.  You  can  there  see  and  hear,  and 
talk  to  her  as  much  as  you  like. 

"That  will  do  adrrirably,"  madame  says,  rising  ;  "and 
now,  as  I  am  sure  you  are  very  busy,  reverend  mother,  I 
will  detain  you  no  longer." 

"  Let  me  present  you  with  one  of  our  admission 
cards,"  says  Mere  Maddelena,  rising  also ;  "  so  many 
wish  to  assist  at  the  closing  exhibition,  that  we  are 
forced  to  protect  ourselves  against  a  crowd.  Until  this 
afternoon,  then,  madame,  au  revoir" 

The  portress  glides  forward  with  her  key,  the  big  con- 
vent door  opens  and  closes,  and  Madam  Valentine  is  out, 
driving  in  her  cab  through  the  streets  of  St.  Gildas  to 
her  hotel. 

Her  calm  mind  is  almost  in  a  tumult  of  hope,  of  fear. 
If  this  girl  only  proves  to  be  what  Mere  Maddelena  makes 
her  out,  or  even  half — what  solace,  what  companionship 
may  yet  be  in  store  for  her  !  For  even  in  her  reparation — 
and  she  honestly  desires  to  make  it — madam's  first  thought 
is  of  self.  She  grows,  as  she  has  admitted  for  the  first 
time,  very  lonely  in  her  desolate  old  age.  Vane  Valen- 
tine is  no  companion.  She  half  fears,  wholly  distrusts 
him.  She  rebels  against  the  sort  of  power  he  is  begin- 
ning to  exercise  over  her.  His  impatience  is  too  mani- 
fest. 

"I  shall  not  die  yet,  my  good  Vane,"  she  thinks,  with 
a  little  bitter  smile,  "even  to  oblige  you.  How  will  you 
look,  I  wonder,  when  you  hear  in  England  that  a  grace- 
ful, golden-haired  granddaughter  has  usurped  your  place  ? 
George's  child  —  George's  little  daughter!  To  think 
that  she  is  over  sixteen,  and  I  have  never  seen  her  yet !" 

A  pang  of  self-reproach  passes  through  her — a  pang 
that  yet  holds  a  deeper  pity  for  herself. 

"How  blind  I  have  been!  All  these  years — these 
long,  lonely,  wasted  years,  she  might  have  been  with  me  ; 
I  might  have  won  her  love.  What  if  now  she  refuses  to 
come,  or,  if  coming,  comes  reluctantly  ?  What  if  she 


23o  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE? 

prefers  her  friends  here — this  doctor  and  his  family,  who 
haye  cared  for  her  always?  It  would  be  quite  natural. 
But  I  would  feel  it !  I  would  feel  it  !  George's  child  !" 

Still  she  does  not  fear  it  greatly.  She  has  so  much 
to  offer — so  much ;  they  have  nothing  but  love.  An  J 
how  often  does  love  not  kick  the  beam  when  gold  is  in 
the  other  scale?  No  one  ever  says  "no"  to  Katherine 
Valentine.  So  she  dreams  on — of  a  future  in  which  she 
will  live  over  again  her  own  wasted  life,  in  the  bright 
young  life  of  this  girl.  How  happy  she  will  make  her  ! 
How  wholly  she  will  win  her  heart  ! 

"  It  will  atone,"  she  says,  and  her  eyes  fill  with  slow 
tears,  "  to  the  living  and  to  the  dead — oh  !  most  of  all,  to 
the  dead !  What  I  refused  the  father  shall  be  given,  a 
thousand  times -over,  to  the  child." 

She  counts  the  hours  with  impatience  until  the  hour 
she  can  return  to  the  villa.  She  does  not  wish  to  go  too 
soon,  and  be  forced  to  bear  her  impatience  under  the 
eyes  of  a  hundred  people.  Her  maid  stares  at  her.  Is 
this  her  calm,  self-repressed,  proudly  silent  mistress — 
this  feverish,  flushed  woman,  walking  restlessly  up  and 
down  her  room  ? 

The  hour  strikes  at  last ;  the  distance  is  but  short :  a 
carriage  is  waiting.  She  descends,  and  is  driven  back  to 
Villa  des  Anges.  A  stream  of  people  and  carriages  for 
the  last  half  hour  has  been  setting  in  the  same  direction. 

A  waiting  sister  receives  and  escorts  her,  and  several 
other  arrivals,  to  an  upper  seat  in  the  long  and  lofty 
hall.  It  is  rather  like  going  to  the  theater — there  is  the 
stage,  the  green  drop-curtain,  and  silks  rustle,  and  fans 
wave,  and  plumes  nod,  and  an  odor  as  of  roses  and  vio- 
lets abounds.  Here  is  the  ecclesiastical  element,  a  bishop, 
and  numerous  priests ;  here  is  the  British  personage  and 
his  lady — an  imposing  assemblage  as  a  whole.  Sisters 
in  black  veils  and  white  coifs,  flit  about,  and  all  along 
one  side,  tier  upon  tier  of  innocence,  white  Swiss,  blue 
sashes,  and  carefully  arranged  tresses,  sit  the  "  angels  ' 


"LA    REINE    BLANCHE?  231 

of  Villa  des  Anges.  Silent  and  demure  they  sit,  wreaths 
on  their  youthful  heads,  white  kids  on  their  angelic 
hands,  dancing  light  in  their  bright  eyes.  It  is  an  effective 
picture  altogether,  and  so  thinks  madam,  taking  it  all  in 
through  her  double  eyeglass.  The  granddaughter  of 
many  Valentines  might  be  in  a  very  much  worse  place 
than  this  Canadian  convent,  after  all.  Madam  has  been 
given  a  conspicuous  seat  among  the  nobility  and  gentry, 
and  in  an  excellent  position  to  see  everything.  Bills  of 
the  performance,  white  satin,  gold  lettering,  attar  of 
roses,  are  distributed.  She  glances  eagerly  at  hers,  and 
sees  the  name  for  which  she  looks,  "  La  Reine  Blanche1— 
A  Drama  in  Three  Acts  !  Marie  Stuart — MLLE.  DOLORES 
MACDONALD  !" 

There  is  a  list  of  other  names — madame  cares  to  read 
no  farther.  That  name  occurs  in  two  or  three  other 
places,  as  performer  of  a  "  Moonlight  Sonata,"  as  so- 
prano in  a  quartet,  as  second  medalist.  She  hears  the 
murmur  of  voices  about  her,  she  sees  a  sea  of  faces,  but 
she  takes  in  no  details — cares  for  none.  Yes,  once  she  is 
slightly  awakened.  Two  young  men  in  a  seat  near  her 
are  discussing  the  coming  entertainment  in  vivacious 
tones. 

"  Gilt  lettering — ess.  bouquet — white  satin,"  says  one, 
sniffing  at  his  programme,  "when  Mere  Maddelcna 
does  this  sort  of  thing  she  does  do  it.  Drilled  the  girls, 
too,  in  their  parts,  and  you  will  see  they  will  do  her 
honor.  She  does  not  forget ;  she  once  took  part  in 
private  theatricals  at  the  court  of  Napoleon  Third." 

"I  see  Snowball  down  for  the  '  White  Queen,'  says 
the  second  voice  ;  "  she  will  look  the  part  very  fairly,  at 
least,  if  she  cannot  act  it.  She  is  not  unlike  the  pictures 
of  the  Queen  of  Scots — the  same  oval  type  of  face,  the 
same  alluring  sort  ot  smile,  I  should  fancy.  Snowball 
will  not  make  half  a  bad  Marie  Stuart.  I  saw  Ristori  in 
the  part  in  New  York  not  long  ago." 

"Well,  Snowball  won't  equal    Ristori  certainly,  but 


232  "LA     REINE    BLANCHE?"* 

my  sister  Inno  says,  she  does  herself  and  Mere  Mad- 
delena  much  credit  by  her  rendering.  Look  at  this 
venerable  party  on  our  right,"  says  M.  Victor  Desereaux, 
the  photographer,  lowering  his  voice,  "her  black  eyes  are 
going  through  us — you  particularly — like  gimlets." 

Rene  Macdonald,  still  half  smiling,  glances  carelessly. 
The  "venerable  party"  looks  both  haughty  and  dis- 
pleased— he  sees  that.  Who  are  these  young  men  who 
are  discussing  her  granddaughter — her  granddaughter  ? 
Our  Snowball,  forsooth  !  Then  it  dawns  upon  her — one 
of  these  may  be,  must  be,  the  doctor's  son.  What  if — a 
ef\iite  new  and  altogether  unpleasant  idea  strikes  her — 
what  if  Dolores — pshaw  !  the  child  is  but  sixteen,  and 
with  no  thought,  doubtless,  beyond  her  piano-playing 
and  school-books.  But  her  keen  eyes  linger  on  his  face. 
Is  this  young  man  handsome?  Well,  hardly,  and  yet  it 
is  a  fine  face,  a  striking  face,  a  clear-cut  olive  face,  full 
of  promise  and  power. 

"  Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ?"  quotes 
Victor  Desereaux.  "  It  is  a  clear  case,  Rene,  my  friend. 
The  elderly  party  has  succumbed  to  your  charms,  she 
can't  take  her  venerable  eyeglass  off  your  too  captivat- 
ing face.  If  such  is  the  havoc  you  work  with  a  glance 
upon  sixty  years,  what — oh  !  what  must  it  be  when  the 
victim  is  but  sixteen  ?" 

The  orchestra  bursts  forth  at  the  moment,  and  drowns 
his  persiflage,  and  the  performance  commences.  Ces 
demoiselles,  in  airy  white  Swiss,  flash  on  and  off,  "  speak 
pieces,"  sing  songs,  play  the  piano,  make  lovely  courte- 
sies to  the  audience,  appear  and  disappear.  Madam 
Valentine  sees  them,  and  sees  them  not ;  they  are  not 
the  rose,  but  they  grow  near  that  peerless  flower.  She 
is  hot  with  impatience — her  nerves  are  pulling  hard. 
Why  does  not  this  foolery  end,  and  the  drama  begin  ?  It 
is  the  piece  de  resistance  of  the  day,  and  is  kept  until  lesser 
matters  are  well  out  of  the  way.  But  its  turn  comes  at 
last,  and  Marie  Stuart,  the  child-widow  of  the  Dauphin, 


"LA     HEINE    BLANCHE"  233 

in  the  snowy  robes  of  her  royal  widowhood,  "  worn 
according  to  custom  by  the  queens  of  France,  hence 
called  reines  blanches"  stands  before  them. 

There  is  a  murmur — a  whisper — "Snowball" — a  sort 
of  vibration  all  through  the  audience,  fairly  taken  by 
surprise  at  sudden  sight  of  all  that  blonde  beauty  and 
grace.  In  those  'trailing  pearly  robes  (white  silk),  her 
flaxen  ringlets  falling  to  her  waist,  with  blue  star-like 
eyes,  but  delicate  rosebud  face,  those  loosely  clasped 
hands,  she  is  a  vision.  Not  Marie  Stuart  herself,  in  the 
days  when  her  radiant  loveliness  was  a  world's  wonder, 
could — it  seems  to  those  who  look — have  outshone  this. 

"  My  faith  !"  says  the  lowered  voice  of  M.  Desereaux. 
"  That  little  sister  of  yours  is  a  dazzling  beauty,  my 
friend,  Rene!  How  is  it?  I  have  only  thought  her  a 
pretty  little  girl,  hitherto." 

Is  Rene  MScdonald  asking  himself  the  same  ques- 
tion? 

He  leans  forward,  his  dark  eyes  kindling,  watching 
every  motion,  drinking  in  every  word. 

Is  this  Snowball — little  madcap  Snowball,  with  whom 
he  has  been  quarreling  all  his  life  ;  whom  he  has  pelted 
blind  with  her  namesakes,  every  winter ;  whom  he  has 
snubbed,  and  contradicted,  and  put  down  on  every  occa- 
sion ?  This  fairy  vision — this  radiant  Reine  Blanche, 
the  mocking,  exasperating  mischief-maker,  whose  breath 
he  has  half  shaken  out  of  her  body  erstwhile  for  her 
pranks,  whose  ears  he  has  tweaked,  whose  misdeeds  on 
the  high  seas  he  has  reprobated  !  He  feels  dazed.  Has 
he  been  blind — or  is  it  the  dress  she  wears — he  has  never 
seen  her  walking  in  silk  attire  before — is  it  his  three 
months'  absence  in  New  York — what  is  it? 

He  has  never  seen  this  girl  before,  it  seems  to  him, 
in  his  life — never,  certainly,  with  the  same  dazzled  eyes. 

Will  she  be  his  commonplace,  everyday  Snowball  to- 
morrow, and  will  this  glamour  have  gone? 


234  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE." 

He  almost  hopes  so ;  he  does  not  know  himself — or 
her — in  this  mood. 

And  still  the  play  goes  on — other  people  seem  to  be 
under  the  spell  of  the  siren,  too. 

She  is  singing,  now,  with  "tears  in  her  voice,"  in  a 
veiled,  vibrating  tone,  that  goes  to  the  heart : 

"  Adieu  !  O  plaisant  pays  de  France, 
O  ma  patrie !" 

And  so  on. 

She  is  leaving  that  sunny  land  for  bleak  Scotland. 

How  low,  how  hushed  is  her  voice !  She  seems  to 
feel  the  words  she  sings.  You  may  hear  a  pin  drop  in 
that  long  and  crowded  hall. 

And  now  the  curtain  is  down,  and  the  music  is  play- 
ing, and  the  first  act  is  over,  and  Rene  Macdonald,  like 
one  who  wakes  from  a  dream,  leans  back  and  passes  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  to  dispel  a  mist. 

"  My  word  of  honor,  Macdonald,"  says  young  Des- 
ereaux,  "  she  is  a  marvel.  She  never  looked  like  that 
before.  How  do  you  suppose  she  does  it  ?" 

The  whole  audience  is  in  that  flutter  and  stir  that  in- 
variably follow  the  dropping  of  a  stage  curtain. 

All  are  discussing  "  La  Reine  Blanche,"  her  beauty, 
her  surprising  acting  of  the  part,  her  vague  resemblance 
to  the  lovely  Scottish  queen. 

Rene  Macdonald  sits  nearly  silent,  lost,  in  a  sort  of 
dream — waiting  with  a  tingling  of  the  pulses,  a  thrilling 
of  the  blood,  a  quickening  of  his  calm  heart-beats,  alto- 
gether new  and  inexplicable. 

Why  should  he  care — like  this — to  see  Snowball  ? 
He  never  has  cared  before  ? 

The  orchestra  are  playing  something  very  brilliant — 
in  the  midst  of  it  the  curtain  rises  again.  Yes — there  is 
Mary  Stuart,  widow  once  more — exiled — imprisoned. 
She  stands  on  the  shore  of  Lochleven,  and  Willie  Doug- 
las kneels  at  her  feet. 

The  white  robes  are  gone — the  floating  curls  are  hid- 


"LA     REINE    BLANCHE?  235 

den  away  under  a  velvet  "  snood  " — the  face  is  sad  and 
pale.  Willie  Douglas  kneels  there,  urging  her  to  fly. 

M.  Victor  Desereaux,  with  one  eye  on  the  play,  keeps 
the  other  well  on  other  things,  and  notices  especially  the 
rapt  attention  of  the  dignified  elderly  lady,  whose  hard 
stare  at  Rene  caught  his  attention  from  the  first.  He 
sees  her  now,  all  through  this  act,  sitting  erect,  a  flush  on 
her  thin  cheeks,  an  eager  light  in  her  fine  eyes. 

All  present  are  interested,  but  none  to  the  same  ex- 
tent. Who  is  she  ?  he  wonders.  Snowball  has  no  rela- 
tives that  any  one  knows  of.  Whosoever  she  may  be, 
she  is  vividly  absorbed  in  the  fair  little  heroine  of  the 
drama. 

And  now  it  is  the  third  and  closing  act — the  very  last 
scene.  She  might  be  called  la  Reine  Noire  as  she  stands, 
all  in  black — black  velvet — (een) — that  trails  far  behind, 
and  gives  height  and  dignity  to  slim  sixteen,  a  stiffly- 
starched  ruff,  a  dear  littl*  Marie  Stuart  cap  on  her  blonde 
head.  In  that  sweeping  robe,  that  ruff,  that  cap,  Mile. 
Trillon  feels  a  very  important  little  personage  indeed, 
and  treads  the  boards  every  inch  a  queen.  She  stands — 
her  queenly  head  well  thrown  back,  her  royal  eyes  flash- 
ing, her  royal  cheeks  flushing,  voice  ringing — confront- 
ing and  denouncing  her  great  enemy,  Elizabeth  cf  Eng- 
land. One  of  the  good  sisters,  with  more  love  for  the 
memory  of  Mary  Stuart  than  strict  fidelity  to  historic 
facts,  has  written  this  drama,  and  here,  face  to  face,  the 
rival  queens  stand  and  glare  at  each  other.  Elizabeth,  a 
tall,  stout  young  lady,  in  ruff  and  farthingale,  and  con- 
spicuously flame-colored  hair,  cowers,  strong-minded 
though  she  be,  before  the  outraged  majesty  of  that  glance, 
and  is  altogether  crushed  and  annihilated  by  the  eloquent 
outburst  of  regal  wrath  and  reproach  with  which  the 
royalty  of  Scotland  finally  quenches  her.  But  marry  ! 
\vhat  avail  reproaches?  Marie  Stuart  is  sentenced  and 
doomed  to  die. 

The  last  scene  :   Dim  light ;  mournful  music  ;  solemn, 


236  "LA    REINE    BLANCHE" 

expectant  hush,  and  Marie  Stuart,  still  in  trailing  velvet — • 
black,  wearing  a  long  veil,  carrying  a  crucifix,  followed 
by  her  maids  of  honor,  with  lace  mouchoirs  to  their  dry 
eyes,  is  led  forth  to  die.  It  is  only  a  school  play,  b;it 
there  is  the  block,  sable,  and  suggestive,  there  is  the 
headsman,  in  a  frightful  little  black  mask,  and — most 
dreadful  of  all — there  is  a  horribly  bright  and  cutting- 
looking  meat  axe.  It  is  only  a  school  play,  but  Rene 
Macdonald  is  pale  with  vague  emotions  as  he  sits  and 
looks.  If  it  were  real  ?  How  white  she  is,  in  that  black 
dress — how  tall  it  makes  her  look,  how  mournful  are  the 
blue,  steadfast  eyes,  that  never  leave  the  symbol  she 
carries.  The  low,  wailing  music  of  the  orchestra  gives 
him  a  desolate  sense  of  loss  and  pain.  He  wishes  they 
would  stop.  There  is  deepest  silence.  "  Into  Thy  hands 
I  commend  my  spirit."  How  despairingly  the  solemn 
words  fall.  She  kneels,  her  eyes  are  bandaged,  "  with  a 
Corpus  Christi  cloth,  by  Mistress  Kennedy,"  saith  history. 

The  sweet  face  droops  forward,  the  golden  head  rests 
on  the  block.  The  headsman  lifts  in  both  hands  the 
glittering  axe  !  There  is  a  sound — a  sound  as  of  hard- 
drawn  breaths  through  the  halls,  then — it  is  the  curtain 
that  falls,  and  not  the  axe.  Music  and  light  flash  up  ! 

Marie  Stuart  has  had  her  head  comfortably  off,  and 
her  manifold  troubles  are  over  ! 

"  Parbleu  /"  says  M.  Desereaux,  and  laughs. 

Rene  falls  back  ;  he  has  been  leaning  forward  in  that 
almost  painful  tension — he  is  thoroughly  glad  it  is  over. 

"  Why,  Rene,  old  fellow,"  his  friend  says,  "  how  pale 
you  look.  If  little  Boule-de-neige  were  really  getting 
her  pretty  head  off,  you  could  hardly  put  on  a  more 
tragic  face." 

"  I  find  it  close  here,"  Rene  says,  with  some  impa- 
tience. "  I  wish  it  was  over.  What  comes  next?" 

He  looks  at  his  satin  slip,  but  when  the  next  comes 
he  hardly  heeds.  How  lovely  she  looked  !  Who  would 
have  thought  it  was  in  her  to  throw  herself  into  a  power- 


"LA     REINE    BLANCHE?  237 

fill  part  like  that  ?  A  clever  little  head  in  spite  of  its 
wealth  of  sunny  curls  ;  odd  he  should  never  have  found 
it  out  before.  She  will  appear  again  presently  to  play 
— afterward  to  sing.  She  will  do  both  well ;  he  knows 
her  musical  power  at  least. 

She  comes — this  time  in  the  white  Swiss  and  wreath 
of  the  other  pensionnaires — a  school-girl — no  longer  a 
white  queen.  She  receives  her  crown  and  medal  from 
Episcopal  hands,  and  has  a  few  gracious  words  spoken 
to  her  by  that  very  great  vice-regal  personage,  and  that 
other  distinguished  visitor,  "my  lady,"  by  his  side. 

Then  there  follows  the  general  distributions  of  prizes, 
and  the  bishop  and  the  personages  are  kept  busy  for 
awhile,  and  literally  have  their  hands  full.  This,  too, 
ends,  and  meeting  and  mingling  in  the  parlors,  and  con- 
gratulations and  mild  refreshments  are  to  follow. 

Everybody  rises  and  moves  away.  Sister  Ignatia, 
second  in  command,  comes  to  Madam  Valentine.  Mere 
Maddelena  is  of  course  devoting  herself  to  her  patrons, 
and  the  personage  and  my  lady. 

"You  will  come  to  the  parlors,  madame?"  asks 
smiling  Sister  Ignatia.  "  I  fear  you  must  be  tired.  It 
was  rather  long." 

"  I  did  not  find  it  so.  I  have  been  deeply  interested," 
replies  madame,  truthfully;  "they  acquitted  themselves 
excellently,  one  and  all.  The  performance  leaves  noth- 
ing to  be  desired." 

"And  Dolores?"  says  the  sister,  gently;  "pardon, 
but  reverend  mother  has  told  me  all.  How  do  you  find 
your  granddaughter,  madame  ?" 

"  So  charming,  my  sister,"  says  madame,  smiling  her 
brightest  in  return,  "that  my  mind  is  quite  made  up. 
When  I  leave  St.  Gildas  my  granddaughter  leaves  with 
me." 


"ADIEU!     O    P  LAIS  ANT    PAYS 

CHAPTER    XX. 
"ADIEU!  o  PLAISANT  PAYS  DE  FRANCE!" 

HREE  long  parlors,  en  suite,  are  filled  with 
admiring,  congratulating,  pleased  papas  and 
mammas,  as  Sr.  Ignatia  with  Madam  Valen- 
tine make  their  way  through.  Many  eyes 
follow  curiously  the  distinguished-looking  elderly  lady, 
so  elegantly  simple  of  dress,  so  proudly  severe  of  face — 
a  face  that  seems  cut  in  old  ivory — bearing  unmistakably 
the  stamp  of  "the  world."  There  are  introductions — 
the  two  titled  people,  the  bishop,  a  few  others  of  the 
more  elect — and  is  then  escorted  to  an  easy-chair,  slightly 
raised,  whence,  at  her  ease,  she  may  sit  and  view  the 
rooms.  A  very  bright  picture  it  is,  very  animated — all 
the  smiling  papas  and  mammas,  and  the  "  sisters,  and  the 
cousins,  and  the  aunts  ;"  the  pupils  chiefly  in  Swiss  and 
rosebuds,  but  the  actresses  all  retaining  their  fancy 
dresses.  The  Empress  Josephine,  in  the  costume  of  the 
First  Empire,  her  waist-belt  under  her  arms,  balloon 
sleeves  and  puffed  hair,  is  sauntering  arm  in  arm  with 
that  sanguinary  young  miss,  who  but  now,  in  a  scarlet 
blouse  and  black  velvet  mask,  chopped  off  a  royal  head. 
Joan  of  Arc  is  present,  in  a  helmet  of  shining  silver- 
paper,  a  shield  of  the  same  invincible  armor,  a  tin  sword 
by  her  side,  and  valor  on.  her  lofty  brow. 

Marie  Antoinette  flits  by  pretty  and  piquant,  and 
looking  none  the  worse  for  her  misadventures,  all  and 
sundry,  in  the  temple.  All  the  sugar-plums  of  French 
history  are  there — Blanche  Castile,  queen  and  saint ; 
Genevieve,  peasant  girl  and  patroness  of  Paris.  And 
last,  but  not  least — ever  charming  Marie  Stuart,  in  full 
feather,  black  velvet  cap,  ruffs,  and  stomacher,  all  dotted 
over  with  sham  pearls.  Blue  eyes  sparkle,  long  ringlets 


DE  ,-  239 

flow,  red  lips  smile — a  dainty  fan  of  black  and  gold 
flutters  coquettishly — she  looks  to  the  full  as  alluring  as 
her  bewitching  prototype. 

Madam  Valentine  sits,  unable  for  a  moment  to  take 
her  entranced  eyes  off  this  brilliant  little  queen  of  the 
revels. 

"Shall  I  bring  her  up  now,  madame?"  asks,  defer- 
entially, Sister  Ignatia. 

"  If  you  please,  sister.  Stay  !  who  is  that  young  man  ?" 

''  That  is  M.  Rene  Macdonald,  the  elder  son  of  our 
good  doctor,  of  Isle  Perdrix,  and  the  brother — comprenez 
vsus — of  mademoiselle." 

"  I  see.     Yes,  bring  her  up." 

The  brother — comprenez  vous — of  mademoiselle  has 
just  stopped  her,  by  catching  one  yellow  curl  and  pulling 
it  out  to  a  preposterous  length. 

"  Will  it  please  your  decapitated  majesty  of  Scotland 
to  cast  an  eye  on  the  most  unworthy  of  your  subjects  ?" 
he  inquires ;  and  Snowball,  turning  quickly,  gives  a 
little  ecstatic  scream. 

"JteneS"  Both  hands  go  out  to  him  in  a  rapture  of 
welcome.  "  Dearest  boy  !  When  did  you  come  ?" 

"  Dearest  boy  !  Ah  !  happy  Rene  !"  sighs  M.  Dese- 
reaux,  and  takes  himself  off. 

"To-day,  couple  of  hours  ago,"  answers  Rene,  in- 
wardly much  gratified  by  his  reception,  outwardly  non- 
chalant, "just  in  time  to  see  you  beheaded.  You  did  it 
very  well,  Snowball.  I  dare  say  we  shall  almost  be 
proud  of  you  one  of  these  days.  So  Johnny's  gone !" 

"  Yes,"  says  Snowball,  and  a  sigh,  big,  deep,  sincere, 
heaves  up  from  the  very  depths  of  her  whaleboned 
stomacher,  "Johnny's  gone.  And  oh!  how  I  have 
missed  him.  '  The  heart  may  break,  yet  brokenly  live 
on' — was  it  Byron  who  said  that?  It  is  dreadfully  true, 
and  I  am  a  living  example.  My  heart  broke  when 
lohnny  sailed  for  Liverpool,  and  even  the  pieces  went 
with  him.  Dear — dearest  boy !  (I  mean  Johnny  this 


240          "ADIEU!     O    P  LAIS  ANT    PAYS 

time,  not  you.)  Life  is  a  waste  and  howling  wilderness 
without  him.  And  to  think  he  will  not  be  back  for  two 
long  months  to  come  !" 

Another  sigh,  deeper,  if  possible,  than  the  first.  And 
a  very  real  one ;  Snowball  is  as  deeply  desolated  as 
Snowball  well  can  be,  at  the  loss  of  her  Johnny.  John 
Macdonald  has  gone  for  a  sailor,  has  accomplished  the 
desire  of  his  heart  to  plow  the  raging  main.  He  is  going 
to  do  his  plowing,  however,  under  unusually  favorable 
circumstances — the  captain  is  his  cousin.  No  duckling 
ever  took  to  water  from  its  hatching  more  naturally  or 
lovingly  than  he. 

"  And  it  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  end — think  of 
that,"  says  unsympathetic  Rene,  "  now  that  he  has  got  a 
taste  of  tar  and  bilge-water,  you  will  never  be  able  to 
keep  him  on  land  while  he  lives." 

"  As  if  I  needed  you  to  remind  me  of  that !"  reproach- 
fully. "As  if  it  ever  was  out  of  my  thoughts.  First 
you  went — although  that  was  only  a  happy  release — the 
island  was  like  paradise  for  awhile  after.  And  then  came 
Captain  Campbell  for  Johnny,  and  he " 

"Jumped  at  it,"  says  Rene,  as  Snowball  falters,  and 
actually  places  a  lace  pocket-handkerchief  gingerly  to  her 
eyes,  "  only  too  thankful  to  get  away  from  the  ceaseless 
hen-pecking  —  chicken-pecking,  perhaps  I  should  say, 
that  he  has  been  suffering  from  all  his  life  You  see  I 
judge  of  his  feelings  by  my  own.  Yo  i  don't  ask  me  what 
sort  of  time  I  have  been  having  in  New  York,  Snow- 
ball." 

"  Because  I  don't  care.  Because  I  know  selfish  peo- 
ple, who  only  think  of  themselves,  enjoy  life  wherever 
they  go.  Of  course,"  resentfully,  "  you  have  been  hav- 
ing a  good  time,  while  I  have  been  breaking  my  heart !" 

"Broken  hearts  become  some  people,  I  think,"  says 
Rene,  laughing,  "and  yours  need  be  very  badly  broken, 
indeed,  to  enable  you  to  act  Marit  Stuart  con  amore,  as 
you  did.  I  know  it  nearly  broke  mine,  to  look  at  you. 


DE    FRANCE?  241 

Yes,  Miss  Trillon,  I  have  been  having  a  good  time.  I 
like  New  York  ;  I  like  sculpture ;  I  like  my  taste  of  Bo- 
hemia. And  I  am  going  back  next  week." 

"  Next  week  !  Seven  whole  days — one  hundred  and 
sixty-eight  hours  !  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  we  are  to  be 
afflicted  with  your  society  all  that  time?" 

These  little  customary  amenities  have  been  going  on 
while  Sister  Ignatia  makes  her  way  through  the  moving 
throng.  She  smiles  and  beckons  to  Snowball,  at  this 
juncture  catching  her  eye. 

"  There  !     Sister  Ignatia  wants  me.     Come  on." 

She  shoves  her  white  kid  hand  through  Rene's  arm, 
and  walks  him  captive  in  the  direction  of  the  sister. 

"  Sister  Ignatia  may  want  you  ;  she  may  not  want  me. 
There  is  Innocente  Desereaux,  too,  looking  lovely  as 
Queen  Blanche.  I  haven't  spoken  to  her." 

"  Oh,  come  on  !  Never  mind  Innocente  Desereaux  ! 
She  will  survive,  I  dare  say,  if  you  never  speak  to  her.  I 
am  sure  you  never  have  anything  so  agreeable  to  say. 
Sour  things  always  keep  well  !  Inno  can  wait." 

Snowball  may  bicker  with  him,  but  she  holds  him 
fast,  a  not  unwilling  captive.-  Perhaps  this  sort  of  rep- 
artee is  the  spice  of  life  to  them,  the  sauce  piquant,  the 
leaven  that  lightens  the  whole.  At  this  moment  Snow- 
ball is  proudly  thinking  there  is  not  Rene's  equal  in  the 
room. 

"  And  how  nicely  he  is  dressed  !"  thinks  this  demoi- 
selle of  sixteen,  though  tortures  would  not  haye  wrung 
the  admission  from  her.  "That  is  a  most  becoming  suit 
— New  York,  I  suppose.  And  that  assured  manner — his 
lofty  way  of  carrying  himself.  A  young  man  should 
always  walk  well.  New  York  again.  But  no — Rene 
always  had  an  air  of  distinction,  the  air  noble  Mere  Mad- 
delena  says  she  likes.  You  beckoned  to  me,  Sister !" 
(Aloud)  "  Did  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  cherie.  Do  you  see  that  lady  yonder,  in  black, 
with  the  cashmere  shawl  and  lace  bonnet  ?" 


242          "ADIEU!    O    PLAISANT    PAYS 

"  My  old  lady,  by  Jupiter  !"  ejaculated  Rene.  "  Lady 
Macbeth  returned  to  earth  !" 

"  Looking  all  that  there  is  lofty  and  unapproachable 
— yes,  I  see,"  replies  mademoiselle.  "Who  is  she?" 

"She  is  Madame  Valentine,"  answers  the  sister, look- 
ing attentively  at  her  ;  "  and  she  wishes  very  much  that 
I  should  present  you." 

Snowball  has  many  things  at  this  moment  to  think 
of — the  name  conveys  nothing  to  her  mind  ;  but  it  strikes 
Rene  with  a  certain  unpleasant  consciousness — surely  it 
is  a  name  he  has  heard  somewhere  before  ! 

"  Wants  to  know  me  !"  exclaims  Snowball,  with  open- 
eyed  surprise.  "Now  why,  I  wonder?" 

"  Come  !"  says  Sister  Ignatia,  and  leads  the  way.  She 
still  clings  to  her  captive  knight,  who  now  makes  a  sec- 
ond effort  to  break  his  bonds. 

"  Let  go,  Snowball.  The  severe  old  lady  in  the  gor- 
geous raiment  doesn't  want  me.  I  will  take  you  home 
whenever  you  want  to  go." 

"Don't  be  foolish!"  is  Miss  Trillon's  only  reply. 
"The  old  lady  will  not  keep  me  a  moment.  'Distance 
lends  enchantment  to  the  view.'  She  will  be  glad  to  dis- 
miss me  in  about  a  second  and  a  half." 

They  stand  before  her  with  the  words. 

"  Dolores,"  says  Sister  Ignatia,  briefly,  "  this  lady  is 
Madam  Valentine." 

Snowball  drops  her  blue  eyes  under  the  fixed  gaze 
of  the  piercing  black  ones,  and  makes  a  sliding  school 
obeisance,  without  a  word.  The  sister  perforce  presents 
the  young  gentleman. 

"  M.  Rene  Macdonald,  madame." 

Rene,  standing  very  erect,  clicks  his  two  heels  toge- 
ther, and  bends  his  body  forward  profoundly.  The 
whole  performance  is  so  French,  that  Snowball  gives 
him  a  mischievous  smile,  and  side  glance  from  under 
her  long  lashes.  Madam  Valentine  stretches  out  her 


DE    FRANCE?  243 

hand,  to  the  girl's  surprise,  and  takes  one  of  hers  in  a 
close  clasp. 

"  My  dear,"  she  says,  and  in  the  resolute  voice  there 
is  a  tremor,  "you  do  not  know  who  I  am  ?" 

Snowball  is  not  embarrassed  ;  if  she  is,  at  least  she 
does  not  show  it.  She  lifts  her  eyes,  and  looks  at  the 
lady.  Sister  Ignatia,  at  the  moment,  feels  a  thrill  of  par- 
donable pride — the  young  lady's  composure  is  admirable. 

"No,  madame,"  she  says,  "I  have  not  that  honor." 

"  My  child — I  am  your  grandmother  !" 

There  is  an  exclamation  from  Rene — it  all  rushes 
upon  him.  He  has  heard  the  name  from  his  father. 
Snowball's  family  are  called  Valentine.  For  her,  she 
turns  quite  white. 

"Madame  !"  she  says,  faintly,  and  stands — stunned. 

"  You  are  surprised,  dear  child.  It  is  no  wonder. 
Yes,  I  am  your  grandmother.  I  have  come  here  ex- 
pressly to  see  you.  I  remain  to  take  you  away." 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  Rene  standing  beside  her ;  hia 
olive  complexion  has  blanched  to  that  dead  white  dark 
faces  take  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion. 

Involuntarily,  unconsciously  almost,  her  hand  seeks 
his.  But  on  the  moment  he  turns,  and  with  a  low  bow 
to  the  lady,  goes  hastily  away.  Sister  Ignatia,  too,  turns 
and  leaves  them  alone. 

Madam  Valentine  looks,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  fear 
and  pain  at  the  face  beside  her,  from  which  her  words 
have  in  one  instant  driven  color  and  life. 

"  Dear  little  one,"  she  says,  "you  say  nothing.  Have 
I  been  too  sudden,  or  is  it — that  you  do  not  want  to 
come  ?" 

Snowball  wakes  as  from  a  dream.  Sudden  !  Yes. 
She  feels  as  if  for  a  moment  her  heart  had  stopped  beat- 
ing with  the  shock  of  the  surprise.  She  draws  a  long 
breath,  and  the  blue,  wistful  eyes  look  steadily  into  the 
dark  ones  bent  upon  her. 

"  A.h,   madame  !"   it  is  all   she  finds  to  say  for  one 


244          "ADIEU!    O    PLAISANT    PAYS 

tremulous  moment.  "  Yes — it  has  been  sudden — sudden  ! 
Man  Dieu!  my  grandmother!  Oh,  madame,  are  you 
indeed  that  ?" 

It  is  a  very  cry  of  orphanage.  "  I  am  sixteen  and  a 
half  years  old,"  it  seems  to  say,  "and  in  all  my  life  I 
have  known  no  one  of  my  blood.  Why  do  you  come  to 
trouble  me  now?" 

"  I  love  them  so  dearly,"  she  goes  on,  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  "  so  dearly,  so  dearly.  They  are  all  I 
have  ever  known.  They  have  been  so  good  to  me — so 
good  !"  Her  voice  breaks. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  *  they  ' — that  young  man, 
for  example?"  asks  madame,  a  touch  of  her  old,  cold 
imperiousness  in  her  voice. 

"  My  brother  Rene  ?  Yes,  madame  " — the  fair  head 
lifts  suddenly — "he  as  well  as  the  rest  I  mean  all — 
Papa  Macdonald,  Mere  Maddelena,  the  sisters,  the  girls, 
Johnny " 

"Who  is  Johnny,  my  little  one?"  with  a  smile. 

"My  other  brother — Rene's  brother.  I  love  them 
with  all  my  heart.  I  have  been  with  them  all  my  life." 

"  I  know  that.  It  sounds  like  a  reproach  to  hear  you 
say  so.  It  should  never  have  been ;  for  you  are  mine, 
Dolores — you  understand? — my  very  own! — my  son's 
daughter !  Ah !  my  little  girl,  I  am  an  old  woman  ; 
there  is  no  one  in  all  the  world  so  near  to  me  as  you. 
See !  I  plead — badly,  I  fear,  for  I  am  not  used  to  words 
of  pleading — I  plead  for  your  love.  Do  not  give  it  all 
to  these  good  friends,  to  whom  I,  too,  am  grateful. 
Shall  I  ask  in  vain  ?  Look  at  me,  dearest  child ;  give 
me  your  hands  ;  let  your  heart  speak  ;  say,  '  I  am  look- 
ing at  my  father's  mother,  who  wishes  in  her  old  age  to 
make  up  to  his  orphan  daughter  what  she  denied  to  him.' 
It  is  reparation,  my  child.  If  you  come,  it  must  be  will- 
ingly, else  not  at  all.  I  could  not  take  you  with  me  a 
reluctant  captive.  Speak,  my  child  ;  it  is  for  you  to  say 
how  it  shall  be." 


DE    FRANCE?  245 

They  are  in  a  crowded  room,  but  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  they  are  alone.  No  one  observes  them — if 
they  do,  what  is  there  to  see?  An  elderly  lady  in  an 
arm-chair,  holding  the  hands  of  a  graceful  girl  in  the 
dress  of  the  Queen  of  Scots — both  faces  earnest,  one 
pleading,  one  drooping,  and  startled,  and  pale. 

"  I  shall  not  hurry  you,"  the  elder  lady  goes  on.  "  I 
know  that  you  are  half-stunned  by  the  surprise  and  sud- 
denness of  this,  now.  You  shall  have  days — weeks,  if 
you  will.  You  shall  consult  your  friends — this  good 
doctor,  this  wise  Mother  Maddelena.  I  will  not  tear  you 
from  your  dear  ones  ;  you  shall  always  love  them,  and 
visit  them  ;  but  you  must  not  leave  them  all  your  heart. 
See !  my  Dolores,  I  am  a  very  rich  woman  ;  but  that  is 
not  to  weigh  with  you.  You  are  to  be  an  heiress,  and 
my  darling.  All  that  wealth  can  give  you  shall  be  yours 
— the  pleasures,  the  brightness,  the  fairest  things  of  life. 
Love,  too — the  love  of  these  good  people  you  possess 
already,  and  there  awaits  your  acceptance  all  that  my 
heart  has  to  give.  How  strangely  it  sounds  to  me  to 
hear  myself  plead !  I,  who,  I  think,  never  pleaded 
before.  But  you  must  come,  my  dear  one,  when  I  go, 
and  willingly.  The  life  you  leave  is  good — you  shall  go 
to  a  better.  The  friends  you  quit  are  kind — you  shall 
still  find  kinder.  You  shall  travel  the  whole  world  over, 
if  you  choose ;  you  shall  see  all  those  fair,  far-off  lands 
of  which  I  know  you  must  have  dreamed.  Your  edu- 
cation shall  be  completed  by  the  best  masters.  I  am 
proud  of  my  granddaughter  to-day — I  shall  be  far 
prouder  of  her  years  hence." 

"  Oh,  madame !" 

It  is  all  poor  little  Snowball  can  say,  overwhelmed  by 
this  torrent  of  persuasion.  Her  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
but  it  is  not  on  the  handsome,  earnest  old  face  bending 
over  her  they  rest.  They  follow  Rene's  tall  figure,  far 
away  in  the  crowd,  and  see  him  through  a  mist. 

"  I  will  not  detain  you  now  ;  you  want  to  return  to 


246          "ADIEU!    O    P  LAIS  ANT    PAYS 

your  friends,"  madame  says,  very  gently.  She  hardly 
knows  herself  in  this  mood  ;  her  heart  melts  as  she  gazes 
on  this  girl  beside  her,  the  last  of  her  line.  "  Men,  like 
pears,  grow  mellow  before  they  drop  off,"  says  a  wise 
and  witty  Boston  poet ;  the  mellowing  process  must  in- 
deed have  set  strongly  in,  when  hard,  haughty  Madam 
Valentine  can  use  such  tones  and  words  as  these  !  But 
to  this  girl — George's  daughter — it  is  easy. 

"  There  is  the  doctor,"  Snowball  exclaims.  A  tall, 
white  head  and  benign  face  appear  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  and  she  brightens  at  once. 

"  Ah  !  the  doctor.  Well,  my  dear,  go  then,  and  send 
him  to  me.  I  have  much  to  say  to  him,  and  it  may  as 
well  be  said  here  as  elsewhere." 

Snowball  darts  off  with  alacrity,  pauses,  looks  back. 

"  Shall  I — "  hesitatingly,  "  shall  I  return,  madame  ?" 

"Surely,  child,  before  this  company  breaks  up." 

"  Shall  I — "  the  fair  head  droops  again.  "  Shall  I — 
have  to  go  with  you — to  your  hotel  ?" 

"  There  must  be  no  have  to  in  the  case.  You  shall  do 
as  you  like  best — quite  freely,  remember  that.  But  I  do 
not  even  wish  it.  If  you  come  with  me,  it  will  be  ouly 
when  I  go  '  for  good.'  " 

"  And  that  will  be,  madame " 

"  Say  grandmamma,  my  little  one.  Oh  !  not  for 
weeks  to  come,  I  foresee  that.  You  must  be  thoroughly 
reconciled  to  the  change  before  we  leave  St.  Gildas. 
Now  go  and  send  your  doctor." 

Snowball  goes,  and  the  doctor  comes  and  takes  a  seat 
beside  madame,  and  it  is  a  very  prolonged  and  earnest 
conversation  that  follows.  For  Snowball,  she  goes  to 
Rene,  straight  as  the  needle  to  the  north  star.  He  is 
leaning  against  a  pillar  in  an  angle  of  the  room,  and 
glances  gloomily  as  she  comes  up.  A  small,  pale  face 
and  two  pathetic  young  eyes  look  up. 

"  Rene !" 

"Yes,  Snowball." 


DE    FRANCE?  247 

"Is  it  not  awful — awful f" — a  long,  hard,  tense  breath 
"  Oh  !  Rene,  do  you  suppose  she  is  my  grandmother?" 

"I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  I  really  cannot  believe 
any  old  lady,  however  eccentric,  would  come,  in  cold 
blood,  and  claim  you,  if  stern  duty  did  not  drive  her  to 
it." 

Even  in  this  supreme  moment,  Rene  cannot  quite  lay 
aside  the  familiar  style  of  snubbing,  although  his  tone 
and  look  are  unmistakably  dreary. 

"Rene" — pathetically — "don't  be  horrid.  I  know  it 
is  not  in  your  nature  to  be  anything  else,  but  just  for 
once,  'assume  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not.'  Do  you  know 
she  is  going  to  take  me  away  ?" 

"  Poor  old  lady  !" 

"Rene " 

"  I  mean,"  Rene  says,  laughing,  but  ruefully,  "I  am 
awfully  sorry,  upon  my  word,  I  am,  Snowball.  Of 
course,  I  am  going  away  myself,  it  may  be  for  years,  and 
it  may  be  forever,  as  Kathleen  Mavourneen  says " 

"  Kathleen  Mavourneen  says  nothing  of  the  sort.  It 
was " 

"  Well,  the  other  fellow  ;  the  fact  remains,  whatever 
Irishman  said  it.  But  while  away  enjoying  life  in  New 
York,  and  going  in  for  sculpture  as  a  profession,  and 
anatomy  as  a  study,  and  artists  and  doctors  in  embryo 
for  chums,  it  would  have  been  soothing  to  remember 
that  you  were  pining  in  your  loneliness  here,  the  last 
rose  of  summer,  a  sort  of  vestal  virgin  on  Isle  Perdrix, 
growing  up  for  me  expressly,  and  counting  the  hours 
until  my  return.  Now  all  that  is  at  an  end,  and  you  are 
going  to  start  in  life  on  your  own  hook,  and  set  up,  I 
dare  say,  for  an  heiress.  I  don't  wish  your  long-lost 
grandmother  any  harm,  Snowball,  but  if  we  ever  get  her 
on  Dree  Island,  she  shall  never  leave  it  alive  !" 

A  pause. 

Snowball  stands,  a  youthful  picture  of  pallid  woe ; 
Rene  stands  nervously  twisting  the  ends  of  a  still  inno- 


248          "ADIEU!    O    P  LAIS  ANT    PAYS 

cent  and  youthful  looking  mustache,  and  feeling  sore 
and  savage,  although  his  manner  of  expressing  these 
emotions  is  degage  enough. 

"  I  wish  she  were  at  the  bottom  of  Bay  Chalette  !"  he 
bursts  forth,  at  last.  " Confound  the  old  dame!  After 
deserting  you  all  these  years,  and  never  concerning  her- 
self in  the  slightest  degree  to  know  whether  you  were 
dead  or  alive,  to  come  now  and  claim  you  !  Snowball, 
don't  go  !" 

"  I  must,"  mournfully. 

"  When  does  she  propose  to  taice  you  ?" 

"Not  until  I  am  ready,"  she  says,  "which  will  be 
never  if  I  have  my  own  way.  You  should  have  heard 
her,  Rene  ;  one  would  think  I  was  a  prize — something 
precious  and  peerless — to  hear  her  go  on  !" 

"Ah !"  relapsing  into  cynicisms,  "  she'll  get  over  that. 
She  doesn't  know  you,  you  see.  I  say,  where  does  she 
live  when  at  home  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  asked.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter ?"  despairingly. 

"  It  does  matter.  If  it  is  ia  New  York  I  could  see 
you.  Find  out,  will  you,  the  next  time  you  talk  to  her ! 
For  me — I  will  address  myself  to  her  no  more.  I  am 
only  mortal — my  feelings  might  rise  to  the  surface,  and 
there  might  be  a  tragedy.  I  am  all  at  home  in  my  anat- 
omy, Snowball.  I  could  run  her  under  the  fifth  rib,  and 
she  would  be  out  of  the  world  and  out  of  mischief  before 
she  knew  what  had  hurt  her " 

"Rene,  don't  talk  in  that  dreadful  way,  please.  Are 
you  going  home  after  this  is  over?" 

"Of  course.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  are  not 
going,  too  ?" 

"Certainly  I  am  going.  I  shall  remain  on  the  island 

until Oh,  Rene,  what  shall  I  do?  I  hate  to  go. 

How  shall  I  leave  you  all  ?  And  when  Johnny  comes 
back "  emotion  chokes  further  words. 

"  Never   mind,    Johnny !      There  are   others   in    the 


DE    FRANCE?  249 

world,  though  you  never  seem  to  think  so  !  Snowball,  ' 
earnestly,  "  if  you  really  don't  want  to  go,  don't  go.  She 
cannot  make  you." 

But  Snowball  shakes  her  head,  and  wipes  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  my  duty,  Rene  ;  I  belong  to  her,  not  to  any- 
body here.  But  it  b-b-breaks  my  heart " 

"  It  has  been  so  often  broken  !"  begins  Rene,  from 
sheer  force  of  habit,  then  stops  remorsefully.  "  Don't 
cry,"  he  says,  "  I  hate  to  see  you,  and  you  will  make  the 
point  of  your  nose  pink  !" 

A  pause. 

"  You  will  write,  I  suppose  ?"  gloomily. 

"Oh,  yes." 

The  pink  suggestion  has  its  effect.  Snowball  dries 
her  eyes,  and  represses  a  last  sniff  or  two. 

Another  gloomy  pause. 

"  And,  Snowball  !"  struck  by  a  sudden  alarming 
thought. 

"  Yes,  Rene." 

"There  is  that  fellow — the  nephew,  or  cousin,  you 
know.  M.  Paul  told  us  of  him.  He  lives  with  this  old 
lady — hang  her  !  and  was  to  be  her  heir." 

"  Yes." 

"Well.     He  isn't  married." 

"No?"  not  seeing  the  drift. 

"  No,  Snowball !" 

"  Yes,  Rene." 

"  You  won't  marry  him  !" 

"  Oh-h  !"  a  very  prolonged  "  Oh  ?"  of  immense  amaze. 
Then  suddenly  Snowball  bursts  out  into  her  clear,  joy- 
ous laugh. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  says  Rene,  not  looking  at  her ; 
"  besides,  he  is  as  old  as  the  everlasting  hills.  Very 
likely  he  will  ask  you,  though.  You  had  better  not — 
not " 

"  Well  ?"  imperiously,  "  not  what  ?" 

"  Marry  any  one,  in  fact !  Fellows  want  to  marry  an 
ii* 


250          "ADIEU!    O    P  LA  IS  ANT    PAYS 

heiress,  don't  you  know — fortune-hunters  and  vaitriens  of 
that  sort.  But  you  won't,  will  you  ?" 

"  No  !"  says  Snowball,  and  it  is  the  old  saucy,  defiant 
Snowball  all  in  a  moment.  "  No,  Rene,  dear.  Having 
known  and  loved  you  all  my  life,  how  could  I  ever  look 
twice  at  any  other  man  ?  I  will  wait  for  you,  man  frerc, 
until  you  grow  up  !" 

And  then  laughing  over  her  shoulder,  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  turns  her  pretty  shoulder  to  this  darkling 
young  Bothwell,  and  flits  away  to  join  her  royal  sister, 
Blanche  of  Castile — in  every-day  life  Mile.  Innocente 
Desereaux. 

It  is  the  evening  of  the  last  day,  two  weeks  later. 
Her  boat  is  on  the  shore,  and  her  bark  might  be  on  the 
sea,  only  they  happen  to  be  going  by  the  4.50  up  express. 
And  Snowball  and  Rene  are  pacing  the  sands  of  Isle 
Perdrix  for  the  last  time.  All  adieux  have  been  made, 
everything  has  been  arranged ;  Dr.  Macdonald,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  has  bidden  her  go  ;  Mere  Maddelena 
indorses  his  words,  her  trunk  is  packed  ;  madame  la  bonne 
maman  waits  impatiently,  jealously,  to  bear  away  her 
treasure-trove.  In  these  two  weeks  she  has  grown  pas- 
sionately fond  of  the  child — it  is  Snowball's  sunny  nature 
to  work  her  way  into  people's  hearts. 

For  Rene — well,  he  has  "  looked  at  her  as  one  who 
awakes" — looked  at  her  with  eyes  new-opened  from  the 
moment  she  shone  forth  La  Reine  Blanche  ! 

"  My  path  runs  east,  and  hers  runs  west, 

And  each  a  chosen  way  ; 
But  now — oh  !  for  some  word,  some  charm, 
By  which  to  bid  her  stay !" 

Something  like  this  is  in  his  thoughts,  a  cold  ache 
and  fear  of  the  future  fills  him.  She  is  going — going 
into  a  world,  brighter,  fairer  than  his,  far  out  of  his 
reach.  She  is  to  be  an  heiress,  a  belle,  a  queen  of 
society.  And  he — well,  he  will  have  his  heart's  desire — 


DE    FRANCE."  251 

he  will  be  a  sculptor  if  it  is  in  him — a  marble-carver,  at 
the  least,  and  dwelling  in  a  world  of  which  she  will 
know  nothing.  He  may  return  here,  but  there  will  be 
no  Snowball  to  meet  and  welcome  him  with  radiant  eyes 
and  smile.  And  he  feels  he  would  give  all  his  hopes, 
the  best  years  of  his  life,  to  keep  her  here,  to  know,  to 
know  she  remains  waiting  his  coming,  rejoicing  in  his 
success — his  very  own.  A  selfish  wish,  it  may  be,  but  a 
most  thoroughly  natural  and  masculine  one.  He  thinks 
of  the  story  of  the  Arabian  genie  who  carried  his  princess 
about  the  world  with  him,  safely  locked  up  in  a  glass 
box — he  understands  the  genie,  and  his  sympathies  are 
with  him.  After  to-day,  who  is  to  tell  whether  he  will 
ever  look  upon  her  more  ?  It  is  a  jealous  old  grand- 
mamma that,  who  waits,  one  who  will  know  how  to 
guard  her  own. 

They  walk  in  silence,  arm  in  arm.  Old  Tim  and  the 
boat  wait,  their  good-by  will  be  here,  where  no  eye, 
unless  the  fish-hawks  are  on  the  lookout,  can  behold. 
And  they  are  silent.  In  life's  supremest  hours  there  is 
never  much  to  be  said  ;  the  heart  is  too  full.  The  yellow 
haze  and  hush  of  a  sweet  summer  day  lies  over  sea  and 
land,  the  bay  glitters,  the  sky  is  deepest  blue,  the  little 
oily  waves  lap  and  whisper.  Isle  Perdrix  looks  a  very 
haven  of  peace  and  rest. 

"  Adieu  !  O  plaisant  pays  de  France, 
O  ma  patrie ! 
La  plus  cherie, 

Qui  a  nourre  ma  jeune  enfance  ; 
Adieu,  France,  adieu !" 

sings  Snowball,  softly,  not  knowing  she  sings.  She 
wears  a  traveling  suit  of  pale  gray,  lit  with  ribbons  the 
hue  of  her  eyes,  a  gray  hat  and  feather,  all  the  bounteous 
pale  gold  hair  falling  free.  She  speaks,  and  her  words 
break  the  spell. 

"It  will  be  lonely  for  Johnny,  when  he  comes,"  she 
says,  in  the  same  soft  voice,  "  you  and  me  gone,  Rene." 


352           "ADIEU!    O    P  LAIS  ANT    PAYS 

"  Always  Johnny,"  he  says,  impatiently.  "  I  believe 
you  care  a  thousand  times  more  for  Johnny  than  you  do 
for — any  one  else  in  the  world." 

"I  love  Johnny,"  she  says,  gently;  "don't  be  cross, 
Rene — now.  I  like  you,  too." 

"  Love  —  like  !  Snowball,  you  always  cared  for 
Johnny  most." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  care  for  you,  too,  Rene.  Oh  !  Rene  ! 
Rene  !  I  am  sorry  to  go." 

"  Are  you,  Snowball  ?     Really,  truly  sorry  ?" 

He  stops,  and  catches  her  hands,  a  swift  flush  rising 
over  his  dusk  face,  a  quick  fire  flashing  in  his  brown 
eyes,  "  sorry  to  go  ?  Sorry  to  go  from  me  ?" 

"  Sorry,  sorry,  sorry  ?  Don't  you  know  I  am  ?  It 
has  been  such  a  good  life,  every  day  of  it — all  happy,  all 
full  as  they  could  hold  of  pleasant  things,  and  thoughts, 
and  people.  And  I  go  from  all  that.  Rene,  nothing 
that  can  come — be  it  what  it  may — will  be  half  as  dear 
as  what  I  leave." 

"You  mean  that  !  Snowball,  Snowball,  you  will 
not  forget  us — you  will  not  forget  me " 

"  Never,  Rene  !  Never  while  I  live  !  You — you  all 
— will  be  more  to  me  than  the  whole  world  besides." 

"  Ah  !  you  say  so  now,  but  you  don't  know.     And 
people  change.     And  it  is  such  a  different  life  you  are 
going  to.     Snowball,  if  I  thought  you  would  forget — 
He  stops,  his  heart  is  passionately  full,  full  to  overflow- 
ing, but  what  is  there  he  may  say  ! 

"I  never  will.  I  am  not  like  that.  I  will  write  to 
you  often — often.  I  will  come  back  here,  whenever  I 
may.  And  we  may  meet,  Rene — you  and  I — out  in  that 
world  beyond  Dree  Isle.  Give  my  dearest  love  to 
Johnny,  when  he  comes  back,  if  you  see  him  before  I  do. 
And  Rene — my  brother — forgive  me  for  all  the  things  I 
have  said,  for  all  the  times  I  have  made  you  angry  in  the 
past.  I  liked  you  dearly,  dearly  through  it  all  !" 

Forgive  her  !      Old  Tim    is  waiting  impatiently — it 


DE    FRANCES  253 

will  be  full  time  to  light  the  lamp  before  he  gets  back 
from  the  other  side.  Will  they  never  have  done  stand- 
ing there,  holding  hands,  and  saying  good-by.  It  is  a 
blessed  release,  Timothy  is  thinking  in  the  depths  of  his 
misanthropic  old  soul,  as  he  sits  and  smokes  his  dudeen, 
''sure  there  was  iver  an'  always  mischafe  and  divilment 
wid  that  gerrel,  and  nothin'  else,  since  she  first  set  fut  in 
the  island." 

"  An'  her  an'  Master  Raynay — sure  they  did  be  fightin' 
like  Kilkenny  cats  mornin',  noon,  an'  night,"  ruminates 
Tim,  "an*  there's  for  ye  now,  afther  it — houldin'  hans 
as  if  it  was  playin'  ring-a-rosy  they  wor,  instid  o'  jumpin' 
out  o'  their  skins  wid  joy — in  their  sleeves.  Dear  knows 
it's  many's  the  dhry  eye  there'll  be  afther  the  same  Miss 
Snowball." 

It  is  over.  Snowball  is  here,  running  with  red  eyes 
down  to  the  boat,  and  Rene  is  standing  where  she  has 
left  him — motionless  in  the  twilight.  Old  Tim  shoves 
off  ;  the  boat  glides  across  the  luminous  river.  St.  Gil- 
das  side  is  reached,  and  grandmamma  in  a  carriage  awaits 
her  darling.  One  backward  glance  the  girl  gives.  Rene 
is  standing  there  still,  with  that  most  desolate  of  feelings, 
"  left  behind."  She  can  just  discern  him,  a  lonely  figure 
on  the  island  shore.  Then  she  is  in  the  carriage,  in 
grand  mamma's  arms,  her  tears  being  kissed  away,  and  Isle 
Perdrix,  and  Rene,  and  St.  Gildas  are  already  as  "  days 
that  are  over,  dreams  that  are  done." 


254  "NOT    AS    A     CHILD 


PART  THIRD. 


"  With  weeping,  and  with  laughter. 
Still  is  the  story  told." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
"NOT  AS  A  CHILD  SHALL  WE  AGAIN    BEHOLD    HER." 

N  old-fashioned  Roman  house,  the  portone  en- 
trance and  stairs  palatial  in  size,  a  great  stone 
court,  where  a  fountain  tosses  its  spray  high 
in  the  sunshine  ;  groined  arches,  ablaze  with 
color,  trees,  vines,  birds,  butterflies ;  great  pots,  and 
vases  of  flowering  plants  everywhere,  and  statues  gleam- 
ing vvhitely  through  a  glow  of  warmth  and  color,  green 
and  gold.  Between  the  drapenes  of  one  great  window 
there  is  a  last  glint  of  amber  light.  You  see  a  loggia, 
overrun  with  roses,  a  sky  full  of  leaves,  a  glimpse  of 
orange  trees,  with  their  deep  green  leaves,  and  sprinkle 
of  scented  snow,  and  jessamines,  in  profusion,  rearing 
their  solid  cones  of  flowery  gold.  An  old-fashioned 
Roman  sa/a,  with  rather  faded  screens,  of  amber  silk,  set 
in  finely  carved  frames,  walls  nearly  covered  with  dark 
oil  paintings,  a  great  glossy  cabinet,  a  miracle  of  wood- 
carving,  and  that  last  pink  and  yellow  glint  of  sunset 
lighting  up  all. 

A  peaceful  picture,  a  rustle  of  myriad  leaves  in  the 
beautiful  twilight,  whose  air  Italians  so  jealously  shut 


SHALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD     HER."  255 

out  and  fear,  a  twitter  of  multitudinous  sleepy  birds, 
workmen  and  women  going  home,  a  crescent  moon  ris- 
ing, like  a  rim  of  golden  crystal,  and  Ave  Marias  ringing, 
until  the  evening  is  full  of  the  music  of  bells,  from 
storied  campanile  and  basilica,  to  little  arches  set  up 
against  the  sky.  It  is  all  a  dreamy  old-world  picture, 
and  the  girl  who  stands  heedless  of  the  dangerous  even- 
ing air,  leaning  against  the  tall  arched  window,  gazes 
over  it,  with  eyes  that  drink  in  with  delight  the  quaint 
still  sweetness  of  it  all.  She  is  the  last  and  faintest  touch 
of  that  fair  picture,  as  she  stands,  tall,  supple,  straight  as 
a  dart,  slender  as  a  young  willow  and  as  graceful.  The 
last  light  lingering  there,  in  the  fading  west,  falls  full  on 
her  face,  and  fails  to  find  in  it  a  flaw,  so  fair,  so  fine  is 
the  luster  of  the  skin,  so  delicate  the  small  features,  so 
perfect  in  its  faint  coloring,  the  tinge  of  rosy  light  in  the 
oval  cheeks.  Her  abundant  hair,  of  palest  gold,  is  drawn 
back  from  the  broad  forehead  ;  a  few  cloudy  pearls,  and 
a  knot  of  jasmine,  in  the  amber  glitter.  She  is  in  even- 
ing dress,  a  trailing  lustrous  silk  of  so  pale  a  blue  as  to 
be  almost  silvery — pink  roses  loop  the  rich  lace  of  the 
square  cut  corsage,  form  shoulder  knots,  and  drop  in 
clusters  here  and  there  among  the  lace  flounces.  She 
wears  no  jewels,  except  the  large  starry  pearls  in  her 
hair  and  in  her  ears,  and  clasping  the  girlish  throat  and 
large  beautiful  arms.  Dress  and  woman  are  lovely  alike, 
as  she  stands  with  loosely  clasped  hands  hanging,  lean- 
ing against  the  gray  stone,  the  clustering  vines  framing 
her,  dreamily  listening  to  the  music  of  the  Ave  Maria 
bells. 

A  servant  entering  with  candles,  arouses  her  pres- 
ently. She  looks  up  with  a  start. 

"  Already,  Annunciata  ?  Is  it  so  late  ?  And  the 
signora — has  she  not  yet  returned?" 

"Not  yet,  signorina." 

The  young  lady  moves  away  from  the  window,  and 
the  Italian  servant  closes  the  shutter  and  shuts  out  at 


256  "NOT    AS    A     CHILD 

once  the  exquisite  evening  picture  and  the  malarious 
evening  air. 

"How  very  imprudent  grandmamma  is,"  the  signo- 
rina  says.,  glancing  at  the  pendule  on  the  chimney  piece, 
"and  in  her  weak  state  of  health.  Sir  Vane  at  least 
shoulj  know  better." 

She  begins  slowly  walking  up  and  down  the  long 
sala,  lit  now  by  the  wax-lights  and  one  large,  antique, 
bronze  lamp.  Her  lustrous  yard-long  train  sweeps  be- 
hind her,  her  pearls  shimmer  with  their  milky  whiteness 
in  the  amber  strands  of  her  hair,  in  the  silvery  blue  of 
her  dress.  So  pacing,  in  pretty  impatience,  she  is  a 
charming  vision.  Now  and  then  she  glances  at  the 
clock,  and  pauses  anxiously  to  listen  for  carriage  wheels 
in  the  court-yard. 

"  Grandmamma  ought  not,"  she  says,  half-aloud, 
half-impatiently.  "  Does  she  want  a  second  Roman 
fever,  before  she  is  fully  recovered  from  the  first?  Sir 
Vane  is  prudent  enough  where  his  own  comfort  and 
health  are  concerned — he  might  interest  himself,  a  little 
at  least,  in  hers." 

There  is  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"May  I  come  in,  deary?"  says  a  voice,  and  the  door 
is  pushed  a  little  way  open,  and  a  pleasant  old  face — net 
Italian  by  any  means — peeps  in. 

"  Oh,  come  in,  Mrs.  Tinker — come  in,  of  course.  It 
is  too  early  to  go  yet,  and  even  if  it  were  not,  I  could 
not  go  until  grandmamma  comes  back  from  her  drive. 
She  promised  to  return  early,  and  here  it  is  quite  nine 
o'clock,  and " 

"Eh?     My  maid,  what   is  it  you  are  saying?     Not 

,  back  ?     Bless  thy  pretty  heart,  my  deary,  she  has  been 

back  these  two  hours,  and  is  in  the  drawing-room  with 

company.     Leastways,  maybe  not  company,  so  to  say — 

it's  her  lawyer,  Mr.  Carson." 

The  young  lady  pauses  in  her  walk  to  regard  the  old 
lady  wilh  blue,  surprised  eyes. 


SHALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD    HER"    257 

"  Why,  that  is  odd  !  Back  these  two  hours,  and  I • 

Did  she  not  go  for  her  usual  drive  on  the  Corso  with  Sir 
Vane,  then,  after  all  ?" 

"  Not  wi'  Sir  Vane,  my  deary.  She  gave  him  the 
slip,  so  to  speak.  Madame  doesn't  like  to  be  watched 
and  spied  on,  you  know.  Yes,  she  went  for  her  drive, 
but  not  wi'  Sir  Vane,  and  not  on  the  Corso.  She  went 
to  her  lawyer's,  and  brought  him  back  wi'  her  here.  And 
there  they  are  in  the  drawing-room  ever  since." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Tinker  ?" 

The  young  lady  says  this  interrogatively,  for  Mrs. 
Tinker  looks  wistful  and  important,  and  as  if  charged 
with  a  heavy  load  of  information,  and  anxious  to  go  off. 

"  Eh,  Dolores,  my  maid  ? — can't  'ee  guess  what's  the 
business?  Maybe  I  oughtn't  to  tell — but  it's  good  news, 
and  I'm  right  glad  to  have  it  to  tell.  The  madame" — 
coming  closer,  and  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper — "is 
making  her  will !" 

"Her  will!"  The  girl  repeats  the  words,  turning 
pale.  "Is — is  grandmamma  worse,  then?  Oh,  Mrs. 
Tinker,  surely  she  is  not  going  to " 

"Bless  thy  tender  heart,  my  deary  !  No — it  isn't  that. 
But  she  is  old,  you  know,  and,  eh  !  my  dear,  we  none  o' 
us  can  go  on  living  forever,  and  it's  well  to  be  prepared. 
The  last  will  left  everything  to  ////;/.  It  wouldn't  do  to 
die  sudden-like,  and  leave  a  will  like  that.  So  there's  a 
new  one  to-day,  my  deary,  and  me  and  the  butler,  we've 
put  our  names  to  it.  And  seeing  that  I'm  that  long  in 
her  service,  and  have  tried  to  do  my  duty  fairly  by  my 
good  mistress  she's  had  it  read  to  me.  And,  oh  !  Miss 
Dolores,  my  maid,  thanks  and  praise  be  !  all's  left  to 
you,  or  nearly  all.  And  who  has  a  right  to  your  own 
grandpapa's  money,  that  he  made  himself  in  lawful  trade, 
if  not  his  own  son's  child  ?" 

She  lifts  one  of  the  slender  white  hands,  and  fondles 
and  kisses  it. 

"-Eh,  my  sweet,  but  there'll  be  a  great  heiress,  when 


258  "NOT    AS    A     CHILD 

old  Tinker's  dead  and  gone.  I've  been  sore  afeard,  my 
birdie,  that  death  might  come  before  I  would  see  this 
day.  I  couldn't  'bide  the  thought  of  all  that  riches  going 
to  him.  I  never  could  'bide  him,  from  first  to  last.  All 
for  himself,  my  deary,  and  longing  for  the  day  to  come 
that  would  make  him  master  over  us  all.  But  that  day 
will  never  come  now,  for  which  praise  and  thanks  for- 
ever be  !" 

The  girl  listens,  silent,  startled,  pale. 
"And  Sir  Vane  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Gets  a  share — not  so  much,  but  enough  for  him. 
But  you  are  a  great,  great  heiress,  my  bairnie.  You  are 
your  grandmother's  rightful  heiress,  and  have  what  was 
left  to  him  before.  And  right  it  is  that  it  should  be  so. 

I  don't  hold  with  giving  the  children's  portion  to  the " 

"  Tinker  !" 

"  To  a  far  out  cousin's  son,  then  !  What  rights  has 
he,  alongside  o'  yours,  Master  George's  own  bonnie 
daughter  ?  Don't  'ee  look  at  me  like  that,  honey  ;  it's  the 
old  madame's  own,  to  do  what  she  likes  wi'." 

"  No,  no,  Mrs.  Tinker,  it  is  not.  I  mean  this  new 
will  is  unfair,  unjust.  What  !  all  these  years  Sir  Vane 
has  been  led  to  expect  that  he  will  have  the  lion's  share 
— has  been  told  it  should  be  so,  and  now,  at  the  eleventh 

hour Tinker,  I  must  go  to  grandmamma.     It  must 

not  be." 

"  Eh  !  my  maid,  that  you  can't.  The  lawyer  is  still 
there,  and  no  one  is  to  go  in  until  she  rings.  And  you 
would  not  get  poor  old  Tinker  into  trouble,  would  you, 
my  bairn,  because  she  is  too  fond  of  you  to  hold  her 
foolish  tongue  ?  The  madame  did  not  mean  me  to  tell 
you  ;  she  wants  to  do  that  herself.  Wait,  my  deary,  until 
she  does  ;  there  is  no  such  haste.  But  I  say  again,  and 
will  always  say,  that  it  is  a  right,  and  just,  and  proper 
will." 

"  There  is  the  bell  now  !"  the  young  lady  exclaims 


SHALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD    HER."   259 

"  Go,  Mrs.  Tinker,  and  tell  her  I  want  to  see  her.     Tell 
her  I  must  see  her  before  I  go  out." 

Some  of  the  old  imperiousness  of  Snowball  is  in  the 
tone,  and  her  "must"  rules  the  household.  Snowball  it 
is,  and  yet  no  such  person  as  "  Snowball  Trillon  "  any 
more  exists,  not  even  "  Dolores  Macdonald."  This  fair 
and  stately  young  heiress,  in  pearls  and  roses,  and  sil- 
very silk,  is  Miss  Valentine,  granddaughter  and  idol  of 
Madam  Valentine,  a  beauty  and  belle  by  right  divine  of 
her  own  lovely  face,  and  a  power  here  among  the  Eng- 
lish-speaking circle  of  the  Eternal  City. 

Three  years  have  gone  since  that  July  evening,  when 
Snowball's  blue  eyes  looked  through  her  tears  on  Isle 
Perdrix  and  St.  Gildas.  Three  years,  and  those  blue 
eyes  have  looked  on  half  the  world,  it  seems  to  their 
owner  since,  but  never  more  on  that  childhood  home. 
Three  years,  in  which  many  masters,  much  money,  great 
travel,  polished  society,  have  done  all  it  lies  within  them 
to  do  for  the  island  hoiden,  the  trapezist's  daughter. 
This  is  the  result :  A  beauty  that  is  a  marvel ;  a  grace 
that  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired  ;  a  well-bred  repose  of 
manner,  that  even  an  exacting  madame  can  find  no  fault 
with,  Sometimes  the  old  fire  and  sparkle  strike  through, 
but  rarely  in  grandmamma's  presence.  It  savors  of  the 
past,  and  the  past  is  to  be  forgotten — is  to  be  as  though 
it  had  never  been — persons,  places,  all.  She  is  to  forget 
she  ever  was  Snowball — ever  was  anything  but  a  grace- 
ful blonde  princess-royal,  with  servants  and  courtiers  to 
.bow  down  and  do  her  homage;  an  heiress,  with  the 
world  at  her  feet ;  the  peerless  daughter  of  all  the  Val- 
entines, with  the  sang  azure  of  greatness  in  her  veins. 
And  the  girl  does  her  best,  not  to  forget,  but  to  please 
grandmamma,  by  appearing  as  though  she  did.  They 
love  each  other  with  a  great  and  strong  love — grand- 
mamma's, indeed,  waxes  on  the  idolatrous.  Since  the 
loss  of  her  son,  hers  has  been  a  loveless  life,  a  dreary 
and  barren  life,  a  sandy  desert,  without  one  green  spot. 


t6o  "NOT    AS    A     CHILD* 

She  has  tolerated  Vane  Valentine,  never,  at  the  best,  any 
more — of  late  years  she  has  distrusted  and  disliked  him. 
But  this  girl  has  come,  and  all  has  changed.  She  loves 
her  with  an  intensity  begotten  of  those  many  loveless 
years,  and  her  pride  in  her  is  equal  to  her  love.  Even 
Vane  Valentine  profits  by  this  softening  change ;  she 
can  look  upon  him  with  quite  kindly  and  complacent 
eyes  now.  Perhaps  a  little  of  this  is  owing  to  a  marked 
change  in  him.  He  has  made  up  his  mind  to  accept  the 
inevitable,  in  the  shape  of  this  fair  rival ;  he  absolutely 
takes  pains  to  conciliate  and  please.  But  that  is  within 
the  last  year  only  ;  he  was  literally  furious  at  first.  No 
word  of  the  change  had  reached  him,  busied  with  a  thou- 
sand things  following  the  death  of  the  late  baronet — pay- 
ing off  mortgages,  establishing  his  sister  at  Valentine 
Manor,  making  arrangements  for  having  that  ancient 
ancestral  mansion  repaired  and  renovated — four  months 
had  flown  pleasantly  away.  Not  once  in  that  time  had 
madame  written.  She  scarcely  ever  wrote  letters,  cer- 
tainly not  to  Vane  Valentine.  Then,  the  English  busi- 
ness settled,  in  fine  health  and  spirits,  Sir  Vane  set  out 
on  his  return  journey.  If  madame  would  but  make  haste 
and  die!  He  hardly  knew  where  to  find  her,  so  unset- 
tled and  wandering  were  her  erratic  habits  ;  but  Mrs. 
Tinker  was  mostly  a  fixed  star ;  he  could  always  find 
her.  He  went  to  the  house  in  the  suburbs  of  Phila- 
delphia, a  sort  of  headquarters  always.  He  found  Mrs. 
Tinker  there,  vice-regent,  awaiting  him,  and  a  letter. 

Such  a  letter  !  Short  as  to  the  number  of  lines,  brief 
and  trenchant  as  to  words,  strong  and  idiomatic  as  to 
expression.  She  had  gone  to  St.  Gildas,  and  seen  and 
-  been  charmed  by  her  granddaughter.  They  were  to- 
gether at  present.  Miss  Valentine  must  see  a  little  of 
the  world.  She  loved  her  very  dearly — more  dearly 
than  anything  else  on  earth — already,  and  meant  to  part 
with  her  no  more !  As  to  their  return,  quite  impossible 
to  tell  when  that  time  might  come.  Her  good  Vane  was 


SHALL     WE    AGAIN    BEHOLD    HER."    261 

to  amuse  himself  well,  and  not  be  anxious.  He  sits  hold- 
ing that  letter — that  cold,  crushing,  pitiless  letter,  that 
blasted  his  every  earthly  hope.  He  was  ousted  !  The 
trapeze  woman's  girl  won  in  his  place.  After  his  years 
of  waiting,  hoping,  scheming,  this  was  the  end  ! 

He  sat  silent,  still,  the  fatal  letter  in  his  hand.  And 
if  any  passing  artist,  wanting  a  sitter  for  Satan,  had 
chanced  to  look  in,  he  would  have  found  a  model  with 
the  right  expression.  A  rage,  a  bitterness  beyond  all 
words,  filled  him.  To  be  beaten  and  baffled  like  this  ! 
Of  what  use  now  the  title  of  baronet,  with  nothing  left 
to  keep  it  up  ;  of  what  use  all  these  barren  ancestral 
acres,  the  ivy-grown,  tunneled,  half-ruined  manor,  with 
the  great  Valentine  fortune  gone  !  For  all  will  go  to 
this  new  idol — the  wording  of  the  accursed  letter  he 
holds  leaving  little  doubt  of  that.  Farewell  to  all  his 
hopes — his  hopes  of  that  fair  English  home,  freed  from 
the  thrall  of  debt,  restored  and  improved  ;  farewell  to 
those  ambitious  dreams  of  a  seat  in  Parliament,  a  house 
in  London,  fifteen  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  Camilla 
Routh  for  his  wife.  Adieu  to  it  all — this  girl,  this 
usurper,  has  mounted  his  pedestal  ;  he  has  been  shame- 
fully, cruelly  deceived — swindled  as  no  man  ever  was 
before.  Perhaps  he  has  some  right  to  feel  all  this  rage 
— it  certainly  is  a  frightful  fall.  What  is  worse,  it  is 
impossible  to  pour  out  his  wrath  and  wrongs  upon  the 
head  of  the  woman  who  has  used  and  flung  him  aside 
with  such  merciless  ease.  She  has  gone,  her  upstart 
with  her,  whither  no  one  knows.  He  strives  in  vain  to 
discover ;  they  might  have  vanished  out  of  the  world, 
for  all  trace  of  them  he  can  find. 

Months  pass  in  the  quest,  and  these  months  do  him 
this  good — they  cool  his  first  blaze  of  wrath,  and  bring 
those  second  thoughts  that  we  are  told  are  best.  He 
thinks  it  over — he  has  ample  time — and  with  a  soul  filled 
with  silent  bitterness  and  gall,  resolves  on  his  course. 
Nothing  can  possibly  be  gained  by  anger,  much  may  by 


a62  "NOT    AS    A     CHILD." 

resignation.  He  will  accept  disaster  with  the  best  out- 
ward grace  he  may,  he  will  accept  defeat  with  dignity, 
he  will  resent  nothing,  he  will  conciliate  the  old  woman 
and  the  young  one,  he  will  warily  bide  his  time.  And 
if  that  time  ever  comes  ! 

Sir  Vane  Valentine  sets  his  teeth  behind  his  long 
black  mustache,  and  his  eyes  gleam  with  a  passionate, 
baffled  light  not  good  to  see.  They  must  return  some 
time — all  is  not  lost  that  is  in  danger ;  perhaps  she  may 
be  induced  to  yield  him  the  larger  share  yet.  It  is  his 
right — this  right  in  view  of  all  these  years  of  waiting  and 
expectation.  If  all  sense  of  justice  is  not  dead  in  Kath- 
erine  Valentine,  she  must  see  it  herself  ;  she  must  be 
made  to  see  it.  And  so  in  grim  silence  and  resolution 
Sir  Vane  establishes  himself  in  the  Philadelphia  house, 
and  waits  for  them  to  come. 

They  come — fifteen  months  from  the  time  they  left 
St.  Gildas.  And  fifteen  months  of  travel,  of  masters,  of 
madame's  society,  have  done  much  for  the  wild  girl  of 
Isle  Perdrix.  She  has  jshot  up,  tall  and  graceful  as  a 
stem  of  wheat,  with  hair  like  its  pale  silken  tassels,  all 
that  is  best  and  brightest  in  her  made  the  most  of,  the 
blonde  beauty  enhanced  —  a  lovely,  womanly  girl  of 
eighteen. 

A  vision  this  to  dazzle  any  man — gilt  as  it  is  with 
refined  gold.  Sir  Vane  Valentine  looks  on  with  un- 
dazzled  eyes.  He  is  too  defective  in  circulation  ;  too 
cold-blooded,  too  wrapped  up  in  self,  to  be  a  susceptible 
man,  and  his  heart — such  narrow  and  contracted  heart  as 
he  ever  has  had — was  given  away,  many  years  ago.  The 
immature  of  eighteen  has  no  charms  for  him.  The  lady 
who  waits  for  him  in  England  can  certainly  not  be 
slighted  on  the  score  of  immaturity,  but  she  has  lost 
her  youth  waiting  for  him.  And  to  do  him  justice,  his 
allegiance  never  for  one  hour  has  waned.  Still  if  in  this 
way  fortune  lies — if  there  is  no  other,  he  is  prepared  to 
make  the  sacrifice  even  of  Miss  Camilla  Routh  !  The 


«  THERE    CAME    A     LADDIE?  263 

best  of  his  life  has  been  wasted  in  the  pursuit  of  this 
ignis  fatuus — the  Valentine  fortune — without  it  the  Val- 
entine name,  lands,  title,  are  worse  than  worthless.  No 
matter  what  the  pride,  it  must  be  paid.  Come  what  may 
now,  it  is  a  road  on  which  there  can  be  no  turning  back. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 
"THERE   CAME  A   LADDIE  HERE   TO   WOO.' 


ND  she  is  a  pretty  girl !  He  looks  at  her  with 
those  cold,  critical  eyes  of  his,  and  admits 
that  much.  She  is  a  pretty  girl  at  eighteen — 
at  eight-and-twenty  she  will  be  a  most  beau- 
tiful woman.  He  might  do  worse  !  She  will  do  him 
honor.  And  he  prefers  blondes  naturally.  All  this  fair, 
fresh,  young  beauty  will  fittingly  adorn  Valentine  Manor  ; 
p.ll  men  will  admire  his  taste,  and  envy  him  his  luck. 
Even  if  she  had  been  ugly,  she  would  still  have  been  a 
gilded  pill — to  be  taken  with  an  inward  grimace  or  two, 
perhaps,  but  still  to  be  taken.  And  he  and  Camilla  Routh 
need  not  part — quite.  Her  home  is  with  his  sister,  as  it 
has  nearly  always  been  ;  they  are  installed  at  Manor 
Valentine  now,  waiting  for  the  golden  age  to  come. 
Even  if  he  marries  this  Dolores,  it  follows,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  that  Camilla  will  still  remain  as  much  a  part 
of  his  home  as  the  ancestral  elms,  or  Dorothy  herself. 
She  has  no  other  home,  poor  girl  ;  it  would  be  brutal  to 
turn  her  adrift  upon  the  world  because  the  hard  chances 
of  fortune  have  forced  him  to  marry  Madam  Valentine's 
heiress.  His  sister  will  manage  the  housekeeping  as  she 
has  always  done,  even  after  Sir  Vane  and  Lady  Valen- 
tine return  from  their  wedding  tour.  This  petted  beauty 
knows  nothing,  naturally,  of  the  manifold  duties  of 


264  "  THERE    CAME    A     LADDIE 

house  mistress.  And  Cousin  Camilla  will  remain — 
prime  minister.  He  grows  quite  complacent  as  he  settles 
it  thus — after  all,  matters  might  be  worse  ;  it  is  the  con- 
summation that  will  present  itself  as  most  desirable  to 
the  mind  of  Madam  Valentine. 

It  has  already  done  so.  The  truth  is,  madamc,  strong- 
minded  though  she  be,  has  been  a  little  afraid  of  the 
meeting  with  Sir  Vane — her  granddaughter  by  her  side. 
But  he  has  disappointed  her  agreeably — if  there  can  be 
such  a  thing ;  he  is  dignified,  it  is  true,  and  silent,  but 
not  sullen,  and  not  more  than  the  situation  justifies. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  I  was  not  indignant  at  first,"  he 
says  to  her,  "  and  deeply  disappointed.  You  see,  I  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing  as  your  going  to  St.  Gildas  and 
falling  in  love  after  this  fashion  with  the  pretty  girl 
there.  She  is  charming  enough  to  make  almost  any  one 
fall  in  love  with  her,  I  admit,  but  then  that  sort  of  thing 
did  not  seem  in  the  least  like  you.  Still  it  is  natural,  I 
suppose,"  with  a  sigh,  "  and  my  loss  is  her  gain." 

"It  need  not  be  your  loss  —  unless  you  wish,"  says 
madame.  She  is  seated  at  a  table,  playing  with  a  pearl 
paper-knife,  and  does  not  look  up. 

There  is  a  pause. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  Sir  Vane  says,  gravely.  "  Of 
course,  I  don't  exactly  claim  to  be  disinterested  in  this 
matter — it  would  not  be  in  human  nature — and  after  all 
these  years  of  waiting.  The  best  of  my  life  is  gone — I 
am  fit  for  nothing  now,  after  yielding  up  all  these  years 
in  the  expectation  of  being  a  rich  man  in  the  end.  With- 
out wealth  to  support  it,  the  title  must  sink  ;  Valentine 
Manor  and  park  must  go.  All  this  you  know  ;  compen- 
sation is  due  to  me  in  justice.  We  might  combine  our 
interest,  as  you  say.  I  might  marry  Miss  Valentine." 

"  As  you  say  !"  madame  retorts,  quickly,  almost  an- 
grily. "  I  have  never  said  it." 

"  No  ?    I  thought  that  was  your  meaning.     Does  it 


HERE     TO     WOO:''  265 

not  strike  you  as  the  simplest — the  only  way  of  recon- 
ciling the  difficulty  ?" 

Another  pause. 

Sir  Vane  stands,  tall,  cold,  dark,  passionless,  by  the 
mantel.  Madame  sits  at  the  table,  and  taps  with  the 
paper-knife.  The  thought  has  struck  her  before,  but  it 
strikes  her  with  a  sort  of  chill  now — a  presentiment,  it 
may  be,  as  she  looks  at  the  man.  She  shrinks  from  it 
with  a  sudden  aversion,  for  which  she  cannot  account, 
and  his  face  darkens  as  he  sees  it. 

"  What  is  your  objection  ?"  he  coldly  asks. 

"  There  is  a  great  disparity,"  madame  says.  "  More 
than  twenty  years.  It  is  too  much." 

"You  will  be  good  enough  to  recollect  I  have  spent 
those  twenty  years  in  your  service — by  your  desire.  Do 
you  think  it  is  the  life  I — any  man — would  choose,  if  left 
to  himself  ?" 

There  is  suppressed  passion  in  his  tone,  fire  in  his 
eyes,  anger  in  his  voice.  Madame  looks  up.  A  spark 
has  been  struck  from  the  manhood  within  him,  and  she 
likes  him  none  the  less  for  it. 

"  I  forget  nothing,  my  good  Vane,"  she  answers,  not 
ungently.  "  Compensation  is  due  you.  I  admit  it.  My 
granddaughter  is  young — she  has  seen  nothing  of  the 
world  in  one  sense,  in  spite  of  her  fifteen  months  of 
travel — nothing  of  men.  She  is  a  child  in  heart  and 
years — a  beautiful  and  innocent  child.  Give  her  time, 
let  her  see  a  little  of  life  before  we  trouble  her  with  ques- 
tions of  marriage,  or  fortunes  at  stake.  I  love  her  very 
dearly  ;  there  is  nothing  so  near  to  my  heart  now  as  her 
happiness.  If  you  can  make  it,  I  am  willing — after  a 
time — to  resign  her  to  you.  Indeed,  in  many  ways,  for 
many  reasons,  I  should  prefer  to  see  you  her  husband. 
1  know  you.  You  are  of  one  race — the  honor  of  our 
name  is  in  your  keeping — you  two  are  the  last  of  a  very 
old  family.  But  in  spite  of  this,  I  shall  never  force  her 
heart,  her  inclination.  If — in  a  year  from  now  say — 


266  "THERE    CAME    A     LADDIE 

you  can  win  her,  do  so.  I  shall  faroryour  suit.  Should 
she  accept  you,  all  questions  of  conflicting  interests  will 
be  at  rest  forever.  Should  she  refuse  you,  you  shall  not 
have  wasted  those  best  years  you  speak  of  in  vain.  But 
she  is  to  be  ray  heiress — that  must  be  understood.  The 
bulk  of  her  grandfather's  fortune  shall  go  to  her.  As 
your  wife,  it  will  come  to  you  indirectly,  through  her, 
but  the  income  only — the  fortune  itself  shall  be  settled 
upon  her  and  her  children.  She  is  George's  daughter ; 
her  interest  must  ever  be  paramount  now.  Meantime 
your  chances  are  good ;  you  will  be  with  her ;  she  will 
see  you  daily,  and  learn  to  care  for  you — I  hope.  For 
you — you  remember  the  words  of  Shakespeare : 

" l  The  man  that  hath  a  tongue  I  say  is  no  man 
If  with  that  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman.'  " 

She  rises  with  a  smile  as  she  says  it,  and  holds  out 
her  hands,  more  gently  than  he  has  ever  known  her  be- 
fore. 

"You  have  my  best  wishes,  my  dear  Vane,"  she  says 
kindly.  "  I  believe  it  is  in  you  to  make  a  good  husband  ; 
and  my  Dolores  is  a  mate  for  a  king  !" 

"  Shall  I  speak  to  her,  aunt  ?"  he  asks,  holding  the 
hand  she  extends,  in  both  his,  "  or  shall  I — 

"No,"  she  interrupts;  "not  yet — not  for  a  year  at 
least.  Let  her  enjoy  this  one  year  of  girlhood  unfettered 
and  free.  Wait  this  one  more  year,  and  woo  and  win, 
and  wear  her  there,  if  you  can." 

So  the  compact  is  made,  and  Sir  Vane  Valentine,  with 
stately  and  old-time  gallantry,  lifts  the  jeweled  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  so  seals  it.  Indeed,  Sir  Vane  is  stately,  and 
slow,  and  stiff,  and  solemn,  and  somber  by  nature,  and 
walks  through  life  in  full  dress,  as  though  it  were  a  per- 
petual court  minuet. 

Miss  Valentine  meets  him,  and  gives  him  one  slim 
white  hand,  and  looks  him  over,  with  the  frank  imperti- 
nence of  eighteen. 


HERE     TO     WOO."  267 

"  Tall,  lean,  yellow,  sourish  ;  little  bald  spot  on  the 
top  of  his  head  ;  eyes  like  jet  beads — don't  think  I  shall 
like  him,"  say  the  saucy,  blue,  fearless  eyes.  "  Oh  !  to 
have  Johnny  here — my  own  ever  dearest  Johnny  ! — or 
even  Rene  !  Life  would  be  too  delightful  for  anything 
if  only  it  wasn't  quite  so  prim  and  ceremonious,  and  if 
only  I  had  my  two  boys." 

"And  it  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  Sir  Vane  Valentine 
somewhere  before,"  she  adds,  taking  a  second  survey  of 
the  baronet.  But  she  fails  to  place  him.  Indeed,  she 
had  but  barely  honored  the  passing  guest  of  Isle  Perdrix 
with  the  most  careless  and  casual  of  glances. 

Miss  Dolores  Valentine  has  certainly  not  got  her 
"  two  boys  ;"  but  one  cannot  have  everything.  She  has 
her  fill  of  the  good  and  pleasant  things  of  this  life.  She 
does  not  include  the  professors  who  still  visit  her — her 
music,  and  German,  and  drawing  masters — in  that  cate- 
gory, but  she  does  her  best  to  please  grandmamma,  and 
takes  to  dancing  and  singing  by  instinct,  as  a  kitten  takes 
to  milk.  French  she  is  proficient  in,  of  course  ;  German 
and  Italian  follow  in  due  order.  She  is  apt  and  ready, 
a  "quick  study,"  and  bids  fair  presently  to  be  a  very  ac- 
complished young  woman  indeed.  Madame  instills  the 
habits  of  good  society,  the  repose  of  manner  becoming 
in  the  daughter  of  a  hundred  Valentines.  She  reads  a 
great  deal — history,  travels,  biography,  fiction,  poetry — 
she  is  quite  ravenous  in  the  matter  of  books  ;  learns 
riding,  and  delights  in  daily  gallops  over  the  hills  and 
far  away,  with  a  groom  behind  her.  In  a  quiet  way,  she 
sees  gradually  a  good  deal  of  society  ;  goes  out  more  or 
less  to  youthful,  innoxious  evening  parties,  the  theater, 
the  opera  ;  is  admired  wherever  she  goes  as  a  beauty  and 
an  heiress,  and  leads  altogether  quite  a  charmed  life.  It 
is  a  very  different  life  In  every  way  from  that  old  one, 
so  far  off  now  that  it  seems  like  a  dream,  but,  in  its  dif- 
ferent way,  to  the  full  as  good. 

Every  day,  every  hour,  is  full  to   overflowing  with 


268  "  THERE    CAME    A    LADDIE 

bright  and  pleasant  life.  She  regrets  her  bo/s,  and 
writes  to  them  when  she  has  time  to  think — to  Mere 
Madd';lena,  too,  and  her  friend  Innocente  Desereaux, 
but  their  memory  is  a  trifle  dimmed  by  time,  and  ab- 
sence, and  new  delights.  Even  Sir  Vane,  seen  with 
daily  familiar  eyes,  grows  less  gruesome,  less  elderly^ 
becomes  indeed  rather  a  favorite  cavalier  servant,  a 
friend  and  cousin,  without  whom  the  smoothly-oiled 
wheels  of  life  might  jar  a  little.  He  so  sees  to  the  thou- 
sand and  one  little  hourly  comforts — the  pleasant  petits 
soins  that  go  to  make  up  life,  that  she  finds  herself  won- 
dering sometimes  how  she  and  grandmamma  would  ever 
get  on  without  him.  When  he  rides  out  with  her,  he  is 
a  much  more  agreeable  escort  than  the  groom  ;  he  at- 
tends them  everywhere  ;  half  the  good  things  she  so 
much  enjoys  would  be  unattainable  without  him.  And 
he  is  really  not  so  elderly — and  then  he  has  a  title,  and 
is  treated  with  deference,  and  is,  taken  as  a  whole,  the 
sort  of  cavalier  one  can  be  rather  proud  of.  And  the 
summing-up  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  Miss  Valentine 
decides  she  likes  Sir  Vane  very  much,  and  that  if  he 
leaves  them,  and  goes  to  England,  as  he  talks  of  doing, 
she  will  miss  him  exceedingly. 

How  it  comes  about  that  the  truth  dawns  upon  her 
it  would  be  hard  to  say.  He  adheres  to  his  contract 
with  the  madame,  and  says  nothing  directly.  But  there 
are  other  ways  of  saying  than  in  spoken  words.  In  a 
hundred  ways  he  makes  her  see  his  drift.  The  blue-bell 
eyes  open  very  wide  at  first,  in  amazed  incredulity,  and 
a  sort  of  consternation.  Marry  !  she  has  not  begun  to 
think  of  it.  She  has  literally  had  no  time — she  has  seen 
no  one — to  be  looked  at  twice  at  least.  She  is  busy 
thinking  of  a  hundred  other  things.  Marry  Sir  Vane  ! 
he  wishes  it,  bonne  maman  wishes  it — she  has  found  that 
out,  too.  Sir  Vane  looks  upon  the  Valentine  fortune  as 
his  right,  and  bonne  maman  means  to  give  it  to  her. 
That  she  also  learns — who  is  to  say  how  ?  If  she  marries 


HERE     TO     WOO?  269 

him  everything  will  arrange  itself  as  everybody  wishes  ; 
if  she  does  not,  there  promises  to  be  worry  and  disap- 
pointment, and  a  great  deal  of  bitter  feeling.  Marry  Sir 
Vane  Valentine  !  Well,  why  not  ? 

Why  not?  Miss  Dolores  Valentine  has  been  brought 
up,  as  we  know,  in  all  the  creeds  and  traditions  that  most 
obtain  in  French  demoisellehood  of  the  haute  noblesse. 
First  and  foremost  among  these  is  the  maxim — mademoi- 
selle marries  without  murmur  the  parti  papa  and  mamma 
select.  To  have  a  choice  of  her  own,  to  fall  in  love — 
could  anything  be  in  worse  taste,  be  more  vulgar,  more 
glaringly  outre  and  indelicate  ?  Papa  and  mamma  decide 
the  alliance,  there  is  an  interview  at  ten,  under  maternal 
surveillance,  during  which  monsieur  is  supposed  to  sit, 
and  look,  and  long,  and  mademoiselle  to  be  mute  and 
demure,  and  ready  to  accept  the  goods  her  gods  provide. 
If  monsieur  be  tolerably  young,  and  agreeable,  and  good 
to  look  upon,  so  much  the  better ;  if  he  be  old,  sans 
teeth,  sans  hair,  sans  wit,  sans  everything  but  money,  so 
much  the  worse.  But  appeal  there  can  hardly  be  any 
from  parental  authority.  There  is  always  the  cloister ; 
yes,  but  what  will  you  ?  We  all  cannot  have  a  vocation 
for  the  nun's  veil,  and  the  convent  grille.  And  these 
very  old  husbands  do  not  live  forever  ! 

She  has  not  thought  much  in  all  her  bright  summer- 
day  life,  she  has  never  had  occasion  for  anything  so 
tiresome;  others  have  done  it  for  her.  She  knits  her 
delicate  blonde  brows,  and  quite  frowns  her  pretty  fore- 
head into  wrinkles  over  this.  She  even  writes,  and  lays 
the  case — suppositionally — before  her  infallible  oracle, 
Mere  Maddelena.  Mere  Maddelena  has  been  married 
herself,  and  knows  all  about  it.  The  answer  comes. 
But  certainly,  my  child,  says  noire  mere,  it  is  all  right — 
that.  If  the  so  good  bonne  maman  wishes  it,  and  great 
family  interests  are  involved,  and  he  is  worthy  as  you 
say,  and  you  esteem  him,  then  why  hesitate.  A  daughter's 
first  duty  is  obedience,  always  obedience  ;  le  bon  Dieu 


270  "  THERE    CAME    A    LADDIE 

blesses  the  "  dutiful  child," — and  so  on  through  four  pages 
of  peaky  writing  and  excellent  French  advice.  Esteem 
him  ?  Well,  yes.  But  the  pretty  penciled  brows  knit 
closer  than  ever.  How  about  this  love,  her  poets  and 
novelists  make  so  much  of,  lay  such  stress  on  ;  positively 
insist  on  indeed,  as  the  first  and  most  important  ingredi- 
ent in  the  matrimonial  dish  !  Is  this  kindly,  friendly 
feeling  she  has  for  Sir  Vane,  love  ?  Who  knows  ?  Notre 
irilre  says  here,  it  is  not  necessary,  it  may  be  most  foolish 
and  unmaidenly  ;  esteem  and  obedience  are  best,  and 
almost  always,  safe.  And  then  what  does  it  signify? 
She  likes  him  well  enough,  better  than  any  other.  Since 
one  must  be  married,  better  marry  a  gentleman  one 
knows  and  likes  than  a  stranger.  A  strange  gentleman 
would  be  embarrassing;  one  would  not  know  what  to 
say  to  him  after  marrying  him  ?  But  o;ie  could  ahvays 
talk  to  Sir  Vane.  And  he  is  never  tiresome,  at  least 
hardly  ever  !  Since  marriage  or  convents  are  slates  gii  Is 
are  born  to  choose  between,  by  nature,  and  as  sparks  iiy 
upward,  why  make  trouble  and  vex  one's  friends  ?  Why 
not  accept  the  inevitable  and  the  bridegroom  chosen  ? 

There  is  her  friend  la  Contessa  Paladine,  only  nine- 
teen, the  count  nearly  sixty,  quite  fat  and  gouty,  and  she 
does  not  seem  to  mind.  And  la  contessn,  who  was  alto- 
gether poor  and  obscure,  and  a  little  nobody  before  her 
marriage,  is  a  personage  of  importance  no\v,  and  sisier- 
in-law  to  a  great  monsignore,  who,  in  his  turn,  is  a  great 
friend  of  //  Papa-Re.  She  lives  in  a  big  palazzo,  and 
drives  on  the  Corso  every  day,  and  says  she  did  not  be- 
gin to  live  until  she  was  la  contessa. 

On  the  whole  one  might  do  worse,  a  Milordo  Valen- 
tine, as  they  call  him  here,  is  far  belter  than  a  C»>nt? 
Guigi  Paladino  of  sixty,  all  fat  and  gout.  One  need 
never  be  ashamed  of  him  at  least.  Her  decision,  you 
perceive,  is  much  the  same  as  the  bridegroom's  own  ;  it 
is  not  what  one  would  most  desire,  but  it  might  easily 
be  worse.  So  the  fair  brows  unbend,  and  the  inconse- 


"TO    LOVE    OR     ffATE"  271 

quent  girlish  mind  is  made  up.  Since  it  must  be  to 
please  dearest  grandmamma  she  will  marry  Sir  Vane 
Valentine ! 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 
"TO   LOVE  OR  HATE — TO  WIN  OR  LOSE.' 


O  matters  stand  on  this  bright  evening,  when 
Miss  Dolores  Valentine  walks  up  and  down 
the  lamp-lit  Sala  in  lustrous  evening  robe, 
and  listens  to  Mrs.  Tinker  and  her  talk  of  the 
new  will.  No  one  .has  ever  said  to  her  directly  one 
word  on  the  subject  matrimonial,  but  it  is  in  all  their 
minds,  nevertheless,  and  mademoiselle  knows  it.  Why 
not  take  the  initiative  herself,  come  generously  forward, 
and  put  them  out  of  their  misery.  It  is  through  a  sense 
of  delicacy  and  consideration  for  her,  no  doubt,  they 
hesitate.  Well,  she  in  turn  will  show  them  she  is  not 
lacking  in  nice  perception.  One  must  marry,  it  seems  ; 
it  appears  to  be  a  state  of  being  no  properly  regulated 
young  lady  can  hope  to  escape — since  it  must  be  done, 
then  it  were  well  'twere  done  quickly. 

Of  late  Sir  Vane  has  been  looking  more  than  com- 
monly black  and  bilious,  and  Eugene  Aramish :  has 
talked  in  moody  strains  of  returning  to  England,  and 
rather  committing  social  suicide,  than  otherwise.  Bonne- 
maman  has  been  rather  silent  a*hd  grave,  a  little  per- 
turbed, and  as  if  in  doubt,  and  has  contracted  a  habit  of 
regarding  them  both  with  anxious,  half-closed  eyes.  The 
moral  atmosphere  is  unpleasantly  charged  with  elec- 
tricity. Miss  Valentine  feels  it  incumbent  upon  her  to 
apply  a  match  and  touch  it  off,  and  with  one  grand  ex- 
plosion clear  away  the  vapors  forever. 

"  Mrs.  Tinker,"  she  says,  pausing  in  her  meditative 


272  "TO    LOVE    OR    HATE, 

walk,  "  go  to  grandmamma,  please ;    see  if  the  lawyer 
has  gone,  and  if  she  will  admit  me." 

Mrs.  Tinker  goes. 

In  all  things,  great  and  small,  this  young  princess' 
will  is  autocratic.  In  a  minute  or  two  she  is  back. 
Madame  is  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  and  bids  her 
come. 

Gathering  up  her  lustrous,  shimmering  train,  Miss 
Valentine  sweeps  away,  bearing  herself  like  the  regaJ 
little  personage  she  is — golden  head  well  erect,  sligh'; 
figure  held  straight  as  an  arrow. 

"  Bless  you,  my  pretty — my  pretty  !"  murmurs  ador- 
ing Mrs.  Tinker,  "  look  where  I  will,  among  contessas, 
and  marchesas,  and  then,  I  see  no  one  fit  to  hold  a  candle 
to  you." 

Swinging  lamps  sparkle  like  fire-flies  down  the  lofty 
length  of  this  blue  drawing-room.  Madame,  in  black 
silk  and  guipures,  sits  enthroned  in  a  great  blue  and 
gilded  chair,  with  rather  a  weary,  care-worn  look  upon 
her  pale  face.  But  it  changes  to  a  quick,  glad,  welcom 
ing  light,  as  her  granddaughter  enters. 

"Dressed,  my  dear?"  she  says;  "have  I  kept  you 
waiting  ?  It  is  still  too  early,  is  it  not  ?" 

For  they  are  due  at  a  party  at  the  big,  grim,  palazzo 
of  the  laughing  contessa — not  one  of  the  great  Paladino 
state  balls,  Miss  Valentine  not  being  yet  properly  "out " 
— a  rather  small  reception — madame's  weekly  At  Home. 

"Too  early?  Yes,"  Dolores  answers,  absently.  She 
draws  up  a  low  seat,  sits  close  to  madame's  side,  folds 
her  small  hands  on  the  elder  lady's  silken  lap,  looks  up 
with  two  wide,  blue,  utterly  unembarrassed  eyes,  and 
plunges  at  once  into  her  subject. 

"  Grandmamma,  Mrs.  Tinker  says  you  have  been 
making  a  will." 

"  Mrs.  Tinker  is  a  foolish  old  gossip.  But  it  is  true. 
Mr.  Carson  has  just  gone." 


TO     WIN    OR    LOSE."  273 

"  Mrs.  Tinker  says  it  is  a  will  in  my  favor,  leaving 
me  almost  all  your  money." 

"Tinker  is  worse  than  a  gossip ;  she  is  an  old  fool. 
But  it  is  true  again.  I  have." 

One  jeweled  old  hand  rests  lovingly,  lingeringly  on 
he  fair  head.  She  looks  down  with  worshiping  eyes  on 
the  fair,  upturned,  sweet  young  face. 

"  My  pretty  Dolores,"  she  says,  "  you  will  be — you  are 
— a  very  great  heiress.  You  are  dowered  like  a  princess, 
do  you  know  it?" 

"I  know  that  you  must  be  very  rich,  grandmamma." 

"And  it  is  a  very  fine  thing  to  be  very  rich,  my  dear. 
It  brings  the  world  to  your  feet.  Have  you  found  that 
out  in  these  last  two  years?  All  our  English  circle  here 
in  Rome — ay,  and  these  titled  Italians  also,  talk  of  the 
rich  and  beautiful  Signorina  Valentine.  And  you  have 
known  poverty,  too,  there  on  your  island.  Which  do 
you  think  is  best?" 

She  puts  back  the  strands  of  yellow  hair  with  a  com- 
placent smile,  and  waits,  sure  of  the  answer.  But  that 
answer  is  not  quite  to  order  when  it  comes. 

"  I  was  very  happy  there  on  my  island,  grandmamma 
— ah,  happy  !  happy  !  Everybody  was  good  to  me — so 
good.  And  I  loved  them  all  dearly.  I  never  wanted  for 
anything.  I  never  thought  of  being  rich — never  wanted 
to  be.  But,  yes,  I  suppose  it  is  a  fine  thing  ;  it  gives  me 
music,  and  books,  and  pretty  dresses,  and  jewels,  and 
handsome  horses  and  carriages,  and  parties,  and  pleasant 
people,  and  it  makes  the  beggars  shower  one  with  bless- 
ings ;  but  somehow,  I  think  I  could  be  quite  happy  with- 
out so  much  money.  It's  not  everything.  I  suppose  I 
am  not  ambitious.  At  least,"  seeing  madame's  brow 
darken,  "it  is  not  worth  quarreling  over,  and  having 
hard  feelings  about.  And  I  am  afraid,"  nervously, 
"there  may  be  much  hard  feeling  about  this  new 
will." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Dolores  ?"  a  little  sternly. 

12* 


274  "TO    LOVE    OR    HATE, 

"  Don't  be  displeased,  grandmamma.  Only  is  it  quite 
fair  to  Sir  Vane  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  fair — it  is  perfectly  fair.  My  money  is 
mine  to  do  as  I  please  with  ;  to  dower  hospitals,  if  I  see 
fit.  I  see  fit  to  give  it  to  my  granddaughter.  What  more 
right  or  natural  than  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  grandmamma,  but  still  you  know  Sir  Vane  ex- 
pects  " 

"  My  dear,"  sarcastically,  "  Sir  Vane  expected  I  would 
die  some  fifteen  or  more  years  ago  and  leave  him  my 
ducats.  I  believe  he  considers  himself  a  wronged  man, 
that  I  have  not  done  so.  Perhaps  he  is  no  more  mer- 
cenary and  selfish  than  the  majority;  perhaps  it  is  nat- 
ural enough  he  should  wish  me  out  of  the  way,  and  my 
fortune  his,  but  you  see  even  Sir  Vane  Valentine  cannot 
quite  have  everything  to  suit  him.  I  do  not  think  he  has 
much  to  complain  of,  on  the  whole.  I  do  not  fetter  him 
in  any  way.  If  he  remains  here  constantly,  it  is  his  own 
wish.  I  think  he  finds  me  liberal  in  all  ways.  And 
if  I  have  re-made  my  will,  and  left  you  my  heiress,  I 
have  not  forgotten  him.  Something  is  due  him — much 
is  due  him.  I  grant  that,  after  all  these  years  of  waiting 
and  expectation.  Noblesse  oblige,  my  dear — I  forget  noth- 
ing. I  am  as  desirous  as  he  is  to  see  Valentine  restored, 
and  the  old  name,  a  power  in  the  land,  once  more.  Your 
inheritance  would  amply  do  that.  Dolores,  you  plead 
his  cause — plead  against  your  own  interests.  Is  it  pos- 
sible— child,  let  me  look  at  you — is  it  possible  you  care 
for  Vane  Valentine?" 

Red  as  the  heart  of  a  June  rose,  for  a  moment,  grows 
the  upturned  face,  but  the  blue,  frank  eyes  neither  falter 
nor  fall. 

"  As  my  very  good  friend  and  yours,  grandmamma — 
yes.  I  see  him  every  day,  you  know,"  naively,  as  though 
that  was  a  reason.  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  half  the 
time  how  we  would  get  on  without  him.  Oh,  yes,  madrt 
carissima,  I  like  him  very  much  !" 


TO     WIN    OR    LOSE?  275 

"  Ah  !"  grandmamma  laughs  a  sarcastic  little  laugh, 
"in  that  way — I  understand.  As  you  like  the  family 
cat !  Vane  is  a  tame  cat  in  his  way  too.  But  as  a  hus- 
band, petite,  we  have  not  time  to  mince  matters — it 
grows  late.  As  a  husband,  how  does  Sir  Vane  strike 
you  ?" 

The  blush  fades,  the  little  hands  fold  resignedly — a 
deep  sigh  comes  from  the  pretty  lips. 

"  Oh,  grandmamma,  I  don't  know.  It  is  very  tire- 
some to  have  to  marry.  Why  need  one — at  least  until 
one  is  quite,  quite  old — four-and-twenty  say?  Grand- 
mamma, I  wish — I  wish,  very  earnestly,  this,  that  you 
would  destroy  this  last  will.  Let  it  be  as  it  was  before — 
let  Sir  Vane  have  the  great  Valentine  fortune,  and  then 
it  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  marry  him,  or  anybody. 
Money  makes  so  much  trouble — it  is  so  hard  to  make 
enemies,  and  bitterness,  and  family  quarrels  just  for  its 
sake.  If  I  am  not  an  heiress,  no  one  will  want  to  marry 
me.  I  could  live  with  you,  for  years  and  years  to  come, 
this  pleasant  life  of  ours,  and  then — may  be — bv  and 
by 

"Well?  and  by  and  by?"  says  grandmamma,  half 
amused,  half  provoked.  "  Oh  !  you  great  baby  !  how  dif- 
ferently you  will  think  when  you  come  to  that  antiquated 
age — four-and-twenty  !  You  would  hardly  thank  me 
then  if  I  took  you  at  your  word  to-night.  No,  my  dear, 
as  it  is,  so  it  shall  remain.  You  are  my  heiress — it  is 
your  birthright.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  marry  Vane  Val- 
entine, well  and  good ;  you  might  easily  do  worse,  and 
great  interests  will  then  be  combined.  It  is  what  I  would 
decidedly  prefer.  If  you  have  not  a  mind,  then  there  is 
no  more  to  be  said — your  inclinations  will  not  be  forced, 
and  he  must  take  what  I  give  and  be  content." 

"  But  he  will  not  be,"  says  the  young  lady,  ruefully, 
"  that  is  the  worst  of  it.  And  he  will  look  upon  me  as 
his  rival  and  enemy,  and  be  bitter  and  angry,  and  feel 
wronged.  If  I  have  a  mind  to,  indeed  !  I  wonder  at  you, 


276  "TO    LOVE    OR    HATE, 

grandmamma !  Of  course,  I  have  no  mind  to  him,  or 
any  one  else,  but  right  is  right,  and  if  you  wish  it " 

"  I  do  wish  it." 

"  And  he  wishes  it — why,  then " 

"  You  consent,  my  dearest  Dolores,  is  that  your  mean- 
ing?" 

Mademoiselle  rises  hastily  to  her  feet,  with  a  little 
foreign  gesture  of  both  hands,  palms  downward,  but  she 
makes  no  answer  in  words,  for  at  the  moment  enters 
Sir  Vane,  ready  to  escort  them  to  the  party. 

They  go  in  silence.  The  Corso  is  all  ablaze  with 
light,  and  thronged  with  people  and  carriages,  as  they 
drive  slowly  through.  Overhead  there  is  a  purple  sky. 
golden  stars,  a  shining  half-ring  of  silver  ;  and  Dolores, 
lying  back  in  a  corner,  wrapped  to  the  chin  in  snowy 
cashmere  and  swan's-down,  looks  up  at  it,  and  thinks  of 
the  moonlight  nights  long  ago.  Bay  Ghalette,  one 
great  sheet  of  polished  silver  ;  the  black  crags  of  Isle 
Perdrix,  tipped  with  shafts  of  radiance  ;  the  little  white 
cottages,  looking  like  a  miniature  ivory  temple.  Where 
are  they  all — they  who  dwell  together  on  lonely  Isle  Per- 
drix, now?  Old  Tim  is  there  still  in  his  light-house; 
Ma'am  Weesy  dwells  alone  in  her  cottage;  Johnny  is 
among  those  who  go  down  to  the  "great  waters"  in 
ships  ;  and  Rene  is — somewhere — studying  his  beloved 
art.  It  is  more  than  a  year  ago  since  she  heard  fro  Ji  him. 
He  too  was  traveling ;  and  that  reminds  her,  she  has 
never  answered  that  last  letter.  Mere  Maddelena  is  still 
at  Villa  des  Anges,  and  Dr.  Macdonald — ah  !  Dr.  Mac- 
donald's  name  is  written  in  marble,  and  he  has  gone  to 
be  a  citizen  of  that  City  whose  maker  and  builder  is  God. 

The  great,  grim  stone  front  of  the  tall  palazzo  is  all  a, 
glitter  of  light ;  music  comes  to  them  as  they  enter.  A 
dashing  young  officer,  in  the  glittering  uniform  of  the 
Guardia  Nobile,  meets  them  on  the  threshold,  and  de- 
votes himself  with  empresseinent  to  the  fair  Signorina  In- 
glese  from  that  moment.  He  is  a  handsome  lad,  and  a 


TO     WIN    OR     LOSE."  277 

gallant,  a  cousin  of  the  Paladini,  and  deeply,  hopelessly 
in  love  with  Meess  Valentine.  A  dim  suspicion  that  it 
is  so  dawns  on  Miss  Valentine's  mind  this  evening,  but 
she  is  not^sure;  she  is  quite  pathetically  innocent,  for 
eighteen,  of  the  phases  and  workings  of  the  grande  pas- 
sion. 

"May  I,  grandmamma?"  she  says,  looking  over  her 
shoulder  gayly,  as,  permission  granted,  she  flits  away  by 
his  side. 

For  Sir  Vane — he  is  distinctly  cross.  He  takes  his 
stand  near  madame's  chair,  with  folded  arms  and  moody 
brow,  looking  darker  and  thinner,  and  older  than  usual, 
and  frowning  rather  on  the  gay  company  before  him. 
He  watches  with  jealous  eyes  the  golden  head,  pearl- 
crowned,  of  his  youthful  kinswoman,  with  her  glittering 
Noble  Guard  by  her  side.  Is  this  to  be  the  end  ?  The 
young  fellow  will  be  a  marchese  one  day  ;  he  is  just  five- 
and-twenty  ;  he  is  handsome,  and  he  is  in  the  deepest 
depths  of  the  sovereign  passion.  It  is  patent  in  his 
liquid  Italian  eyes  for  all  the  world  to  read.  Is  this  to 
be  the  end  ?  And  Carson  was  at  the  house  to-day,  and  a 
new  will  was  made — a  final  one  this  time,  no  doubt,  and 
the  Valentine  fortune  has  been  left  irrevocably  to  this 
amber-haired  girl.  After  all  his  wasted  years,  his  lost 
youth,  his  hopes,  is  this  to  be  the  end  ? 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  you,  my  good 
Vane  ?"  madame  asks  at  last,  struck,  as  no  one  can  fail 
to  be,  by  the  dark  look  his  face  wears. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  my  health,  if  that 
is  what  you  mean,"  he  answers,  shortly  enough. 

"  Ah  !  that  is  satisfactory.  Your  illness  then  is  a 
mhtd  disease,  I  take  it." 

"Does  it  follow,"  still  curtly,  "that  I  must  be  ill  at 
all,  because  I  do  not  choose  to  talk  in  this  din  ?" 

Sir  Vane  has  oiten  been  irritable — so  distinctly  as 
this,  never  before.  But  she  is  in  exceptionally  good 
humor  herself,  and  great  allowance  is  to  be  made  for  Sir 


278  "TO    LOVE    OR    HATE, 

Vane,  she  is  aware.  "  If  you  do  not  choose  to  talk  that 
is  another  thing,"  she  says,  coolly  ;  "when  you  do  I  have 
a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you,  you  may  like  to  hear." 

"Indeed?"  coldly  ;  "anything  pleasant  will  be  rather 
a  welcome  change.  My  letters  from  home  to-day  were 
ail  most  confoundedly  unpleasant.  Everything  is  going 
wrong,  everything  from  the  manor  to  the  cottages  tum- 
bling to  pieces.  I  must  go  over,  Dorothy  says,  if  any- 
thing is  to  be  done.  I  can  go,  of  course,  although  I  fail 
to  see  of  what  particular  benefit  my  going  can  be.  I 
feel  rather  hipped,  I  must  confess,  in  the  face  of  all  this. 
And  that  does  not  add  to  one's  comfort."  He  motions 
to  where  Dolores,  still  on  the  arm  of  the  Noble  Guard,  is 
waltzing  over  the  waxed  floor,  to  the  music  of  Gourond. 

"  It  is  of  that  I  would  speak.  Come  closer,  my  good 
Vane,  we  can  talk  here  as  securely  as  at  home.  You  saw 
Mr.  Carson  at  the  house  to-day,  I  infer  ?" 

"  Yes,"  curtly. 

"  I  have  made  a  will — a  new  will — my  final  disposi- 
tion this  time.  The  bulk  of  my  fortune  is  left  to  my 
granddaughter — naturally." 

"  Naturally,"  he  repeats,  with  a  half  sneer,  setting 
his  teeth  behind  his  mustache,  and  biting  back  a  sullen 
oath. 

"  Dolores  discovered,  and,  strange  to  say,  objected. 
She  wished  you  to  have  the  larger  share.  She  considered 
it  due  to  you.  She  pleaded  your  cause  most  urgently." 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  my  fair  cousin — the  future 
Marchesa  Salvinl." 

"She  is  not  your  cousin — at  least,  the  cousinship  is 
so  remote  that  it  need  not  count.  I  object  to  the  mar- 
riage of  cousins.  And  there  is  a  question  of  marriage 
here,  Vane.  We  spoke  of  it,  she  and  I.  I  told  her  I 
wished  it,  you  wished  it,  and  she " 

"  Well  ?"— breathlessly. 

"Consents.     Dolores  will  marry  you,  my  good  Vane." 

There  is  silence.     He  stands  erect,  and  for  a  momenl 


TO     WIN    OR    LOSE."  279 

draws  his  breath  in  hard.  It  is  a  moment  before  he  can 
quite  realize  what  he  hears.  Marry  him  !  Then  that  tall 
fellow  in  black  and  gold  is  no  favored  lover  after  all. 
He  looks  at  her  with  kindling  eyes,  triumphant  e.yes. 
At  last !  The  fortune  is  secured  !  And  she  is  pretty — 
very  pretty — yes,  beautiful--  a  bride  to  be  proud  of ! 
And  she  is  dowered  like  a  grand-duchess  !  Only  a  mo- 
ment ago  all  seemed  lost — and  now Lamps,  flowers, 

waltzes,  music,  surge  around  him  as  things  do  in  a 
dream.  "You  say  nothing,"  madame  says,  suspiciously, 
and  in  some  anger.  "Am  I  to  understand " 

"  That  a  man  may  be  dazed,  stunned,  speechless,  from 
sheer  good  fortune — yes.  There  are  shocks  and  shocks, 
my  dear  aunt.  You  have  just  given  me  one.  I  was  in 
despair — I  may  tell  you  now — one  moment  ago.  I  meant 
to  throw  up  everything  to-morrow,  to  go  back  to  Eng- 
land, and  return  here  no  more.  I  thought  she  cared  for 
that  fellow.  And  now — to  know  this " 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  demands  madame,  and  looks 
up  at  him  earnestly,  "  that  you  care  for  the  child  apart 
from  her  fortune — that  you  love  her,  in  short?" 

"  You  need  hardly  ask  that  question,  I  think,"  he  an- 
swers, calmly.  "  Could  any  man  see  her,  in  her  beauty 
and  sweetness,  as  I  do  day  after  day,  and  not  love  her  ? 
You  hardly  compliment  our  lovely  Dolores  by  tne 
doubt." 

"  Pardon.  I  thought — I  mean — well,  I  am  very  glad. 
Yes,  she  is  lovely  enough  to  inspire  love  in  any  one. 
There  is  a  great  disparity  of  years,"  with  a  sign  ;  "  but 
ihat  must  be  overlooked.  You  will  be  good  to  her, 
Vane  ? — my  poor  little  tender  one  !" 

And  Sir  Vane  protests,  and  takes  a  seat  by  her  side, 
and  while  the  music  swells  around  ttiem,  and  tne  dancers 
dance,  and  the  rosy  hours  tty,  they  two  sit  mere  and 
plan,  and  talk  of  the  future,  and  tiie  restored  fortunes  of 
the  he  use  of  Valentine. 


2*0  "NOTHING    COMES    AMISS, 

CHAPTER   XXIV. 
"  NOTHING  COMES  AMISS,  SO  MONEY  COMES  WITHAL." 


HERE  is  a  picnic,  three  days  after,  and  they  go 
to  the  Villa  Ludovisi.  It  is  lovely  picnic 
weather,  and  the  gay  little  contessa  is^ever 
happy  but  when  in  the  midst  of  something 
of  the  sort.  To-day  they  are  a  parti  cane — Sir  Vane, 
madame,  la  contessa,  and  Dolores.  And  to-day  Sir  Vane 
determines  to  put  his  fate  to  the  touch — to  speak  to  Do- 
lores definitely.  Not  that  there  is  any  real  need  of  such 
a  proceeding,  but  Sir  Vane  is  not  a  Frenchman,  and  be- 
lieves in  doing  this  sort  of  thing  properly  and  in  order, 
and  in  English  fashion.  They  drive  through  the  sunny 
streets,  where  hooded  capuchins,  and  picturesque  artists, 
and  flower-girls,  and  fruit-sellers,  and  friars  of  orders 
gray,  and  cavalcades  with  jingling  bells,  and  brown  beg- 
gars, lie  in  the  sun,  and  the  sharp  chirp  of  the  cicala 
cracks  through  the  green  gloom,  and  flowers,  and  orange 
trees,  and  roses,  and  Roman  violets,  and  Victor  Eman- 
uel's  soldiers  are  everywhere.  Overhead,  there  is  a  hot, 
hot  sun,  but  with  it  there  is  a  breeze,  an  air  like  velvet, 
the  streets  are  a  blaze  of  light,  and  life,  and  color.  It  is 
not  the  old  picturesque,  papal  picture,  of  cardinal's  car- 
riages— //  Papa-Re,  benign  and  white-robed,  in  their 
midst — but  a  glowing  vista  of  moving  life  and  color  still. 
They  ascend  to  the  heights  among  ruins,  and  the  red 
petticoats  of  condatina  into  the  dense  green  gloom  of 
olive  and  ilex  woods,  where  luncheon  has  been  ordered, 
and  waits  them.  There  is  hard  brown  bread,  and  crisp, 
silvery  lettuce,  and  figs  that  are  like  globes  of  gold,  and 
ice-cold  wine.  And  after  dinner,  as  they  stand  under 
the  shade  of  the  ilex  for  a  moment  alone,  Sir  Vane  finds 
his  opportunity,  and  speaks. 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL."          281 

She  is  looking  very  fair,  and  very  young — too  young 
the  man  of  forty  beside  her  thinks — impatient  of  those 
forty  years.  She  is  dressed  in  white,  crisp,  gauzy,  silky, 
as  spotless  as  her  own  maiden  heart.  The  amber  hair 
falls  long  and  loose  over  her  shoulders  in  girlish  fashion, 
tied  back  with  a  knot  of  pale  pink  ribbon.  Her  cheeks 
are  flushed  with  the  heat,  to  the  same  rose  pink  glow. 
That  glow  deepens  to  scarlet  as  she  stands,  with  white 
drooping  lids,  and  listens. 

She  wishes  he  would  not — she  shrinks  from  what  he 
says.  His  words  of  love  and  passion  sound  forced, 
cold  ;  they  repel  her.  No  answering  sympathy  awakes 
within  her — she  shrinks  as  she  hears.  Was  it  necessary 
to  say  this  ?  Grandmamma  has  told  him.  Love  ?  no, 
she  feels  none  of  it — she  does  not  believe  he  does  either. 
She  is  relieved  when  he  is  silent,  and  looks  about  her, 
half  inclined  to  run  away.  But  he  has  caught  one  of  her 
hands,  and  so  holds  her.  "  Dear  little  hand,"  he  says, 
clasping  it  between  both  his  own,  "  when  is  it  to  be  mine, 
Dolores  ?" 

"  Grandmamma  will  arrange  all  that,"  answered  ma- 
demoiselle, and  hastily  withdraws  it ;  "  it  is  a  matter  in 
which  I  desire  to  have  no  choice.  I  should  like  it  to  be 
as  far  off  as  possible " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  cruel — the  first  unkind  word  you  have 
spoken  to-day." 

"  Otherwise,"  quite  calmly,  ignoring  the  interruption, 
"  I  am  prepared  to  obey.  And,  meantime,  I  should  be 
glad,  Sir  Vane,  if  you  will  not  speak  of  this  again.  It  is 
not  needed,  and — I  find  it  embarrassing."  There  is  no 
necessity  to  say  so  ;  her  deeply  flushed  cheeks  speak  for 
her. 

Sir  Vane  promises  with  alacrity.  He  is  not  at  all 
sorry  to  be  rid  of  the  bore  of  wooing.  Her  wish  renders 
it  easy  to  make  a  merit  of  his  own  desire.  He  lights  a 
philosophic  cigar,  and  strolls  off  to  enjoy  it,  as  la  con- 
tessa  comes  up  with  madame. 


282  "NOTHING    COMES    AMISS, 

Later  that  afternoon,  strolling  down  the  hillside,  Do- 
lores finds  herself  alone;  the  others  have  paused  to  ad- 
mire a  ruin  farther  up.  Where  she  stands  is  just  beneath 
a  shrine  —  a  shrine  set  in  a  tall,  precipitous,  flower- 
crowned  cliff — a  Madonna,  in  a  little  blue  grotto,  with 
clasped  hands  and  upraised  eyes,  and  a  tiny  lamp  burn- 
ing like  a  star  at  her  feet.  Some  devout  client  has 
wreathed  the  feet  with  flowers,  but  they  are  withered 
now  and  drooping,  after  the  noontide  glare.  It  occurs 
to  Dolores  to  say  a  little  prayer  and  remend  the  floral 
offering.  Wild  roses  are  in  abundance ;  she  breaks  off  some 
long,  spiky  branches,  wounding  her  fingers  in  the  effort, 
and  mounts  some  loose  large  rocks  to  reach  Our  Lady's 
feet.  Standing  so,  two  white  arms  uplifted,  the  gauzy 
sleeves  falling  back,  both  hands  filled  with  rose  branches, 
she  is  a  picture.  So- the  young  man  lying  quietly  on  the 
tall  grass  a  few  feet  off,  watching  her  at  his  ease,  himself 
unseen,  thinks.  She  stands  on  the  stones,  and  essays  to 
twine  the  roses  round  the  base  of  the  statue.  But  her 
footing  is  precarious,  the  topmost  stone — loose  always — 
slips,  fails  her.  She  tries  to  grasp  something,  fails  in 
this  too,  and  is  toppling  ingloriously  backward,  when 
the  unseen  watcher  springs  from  the  grass,  and  with  one 
leap  catches  her  in  his  arms.  She  drops  into  them  with 
a  gasp,  a  horrified  "Oh  !"  then  draws  precipitately  back. 

"  Scuse  /"  begins  the  rescuer,  trying  to  uncover,  but 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  with  a  second  look  in  his  face, 
there  is  a  quick  little  scream  of  ecstasy  ;  tw.o  milk-white 
arms  are  flung  round  his  neck,  and  hold  him  tight,  tight, 
and  a  voice  brimful  and  running  over  with  transport, 
cries  out . 

"  RENE  !" 

"  Rene  !  Rene  !  Rene  !"  cries  this  ecstatic  voice,  "don't 
you  know  me?  Oh  !  Rene,  how  glad — how  glad  I  am  !" 

"Snowball!"  he  says,  blankly.  Intense  surprise  is 
his  first  feeling — his  only  feeling  for  a  moment — mingled 
with  doubt.  "Is  it  Snowball  ?" 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL?'         283 

"Snowball,  of  course.  Oh!  my  dearest,  dearest 
Rene  !  how  good  it  seems  to  see  you  after  all  these 
years  once  more  !"  She  loosens  her  arms  by  this  time 
and  looks  at  him  again.  He  stands,  half  laughing,  half 
embarrassed,  wholly  glad,  but  not  gl  d  in  the  same 
effusive  way.  And  with  that  second  look,  it  dawns 
upon  this  impulsive  young  person  that  she  has  been 
embracing  a  Rene  very  different  in  appearance  from  the 
Rene  of  old.  This  is  a  tall  young  gentleman,  and,  in  a 
dark  way,  an  exceedingly  good-looking  one.  And  he 
wears  a  mustache.  And  he  is  a  MAN  !  And  all  the  blood 
of  all  the  Valentines  rises  up,  in  deepest  contrition  and 
confusion,  in  the  fair,  pearl-like  face. 

It  is  Rene,  and  not  Rene.  And  he  is  laughing  at  her 
— that  is  to  say,  there  is  a  smile  in  his  dark  eyes,  and  just 
lurking  at  the  corners  of  that  new  mustache,  though  he 
is  evidently  making  a  decorous  effort  to  efface  it.  What 
would  grandmamma,  and  oh  !  what  would  Sir  Vane  say 
if  he  had  seen  !  Red  as  a  rose  is  she — the  sweetest,  the 
prettiest,  the  most  charming  picture  of  confusion — and 
Rene  longs  to  take  her  in  his  arms  this  time  and  return 
the  hug  with  compound  interest.  Only  he  does  not, 
you  understand.  On  the  contrary,  he  stands,  hat  in 
hand,  and  looks  as  though  he  could  never  grow  weary  of 
looking. 

"  It  is  Snowball  !"  he  says  ;  "  and  to  think  that  for 
ten  full  minutes  I  have  been  watching  your  efforts  to 
decorate  that  statue,  and  never  knew  you.  How  you 
have  changed  !" 

"  Not  half  so  much  as  you,  I  think.  I  haven't  grown 
a  mustache.  But  you  always  were  rather  stupid  about 
recognizing  your  old  friends,  Rene." 

He  laughs  outright — her  tone  is  so  exactly  the  dis- 
putatious tone  of  wild  Snowball  Trillon.  "Have  you 
never  given  up  your  habit  of  vituperation  ?"  he  asks  ; 
"  or  is  it  only  me  you  favor  with  it?  I  am  glad  if  you 
keep  anything  exclusively  for  me — even  your  trick  of 


284  "NOTHING     COMES    AMISS, 

finding  fault.  But  my  dear  little  Snowball,  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you." 

"  O-h-h !  it  has  taken  you  some  time  to  find  it  out. 
You  are  like  the  man  who  had  so  much  mind,  it  took  him 
a  week  sometimes  to  make  it  up.  I  knew  I  was  glad  to 
see  you  at  first  sight." 

"You  don't  quite  sound  so,"  still  laughing  ;  "  ma  foil 
how  tall  you  are,  and  how " 

"  Well,"  imperiously,  "  what  ?" 

"Pretty.  Pardon  me  my  outspokenness.  We  never 
stood  on  ceremony  with  each  other  you  may  remem- 
ber." 

"  I  remember.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  return  the  com- 
pliment," gravely.  "You  have  not  grown  up  at  all 
pretty,  Rene." 

"No?"  laughing  once  more.  "Ah!  how  sorry  I 
am  to  hear  that.  I  never  regretted  being  ugly  before. 
But  handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  you  know,  Snow- 
ball, and  /am  doing  most  handsomely,  I  assure  you." 

"Are  you  ?  At  sculpture,  I  suppose.  Do  you  know, 
I  don't  think  much  of  sculptors  and  artists.  One  sees  so 
many  of  them.  And  they  are  all  alike — smoke  grimy 
pipes,  wear  blouses,  and  never  comb  their  hair." 

"Mine  is  cropped  within  half  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of 
my  head.  I  have  none  to  comb,  my  dear  Snowball." 

"And  Johnny,"  says  Miss  Valentine,  "where  is 
Johnny?  Ah!  how  homesick  I  have  been  many  a  time 
for  Johnny.  I  never  can  sleep  stormy  nights  thinking  of 
him.  Does  he  still  go  to  sea?" 

"  Still  goes  to  sea — happy  Johnny  !  Gone  for  a  three 
years'  cruise  to  China.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  recon- 
cile it  to  your  conscience  —  if  you  have  any  —  to  like 
Johnny  so  much  better  than  me.  He  never  liked  you 
best  ?" 

"  Oh  !  but  he  did,"  cries  Miss  Valentine,  warmly,  and 
flushing  up,  "  a  great  deal  the  best.  You  never  cared  for 
anybody  in  your  life  —  well,  perhaps,  except  Ma'am 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL."         285 

Weesy,  when  she  was  cooking  something  particularly 
nice  !" 

"How  unjust,"  says  Rene,  "how  extremely  tmjust. 
I  may  have  concealed  my  feelings,  but  I  always  had — I 
have  at  this  moment,"  lifting  two  dark,  laughing,  yet 
earnest  eyes,  "the  very  friendliest  regard  for  you." 

"Your  power  of  concealment  then,  past  and  present, 
do  you  infinite  credit,  monsieur.  I  rejoice  to  be  able  to 
congratulate  you  on  anything.  What  are  you  doing  in 
Rome?" 

"  What  do  all  who  aspire  to  carve  their  names  among 
the  immortals  in  sculpture  do  in  Rome?" 

"  Among  the  immortals  !  Let  me  congratulate  you 
once  more  ;  this  time  on  your  modesty.  Since  when  are 
you  here  ?" 

"  Since  four  months  ago." 

"  Did  you  know  /  was  here  ?" 

"  My  dear  Snowball,  there  are  some  fortune-favored 
people,  who  can  no  more  hide  themselves  than  the  sun 
up  yonder.  You  are  of  these  elect.  Even  to  my  obscure 
workshop  the  fame  of  the  fair,  the  peerless,  the  priceless 
Signorina  Inglese  has  been  wafted." 

"  How  priceless,  please  ?" 

"  Need  you  ask  ?  Need  the  heiress  of  the  great  Be- 
gum  " 

She  stops  him  with  a  motion,  and  a  rising  flush. 
"  And,  knowing  I  was  here,  you  never  came,  never  cared 
to  see  me  all  this  time  !  Was  I  not  right  when  I  said 
you  were  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  your  own  statues  ? 
You  never  cared  for  anybody,  my  friend  Rene,  in  your 
life." 

"  But,  Snowball,  think.  You  are — what  you  are  ;  I 
am  Rene  Macdonald,  obscure  and  unknown  to  fame,  with 
the  poverty  of  the  proverbial  church  mouse,  and 

"  And  the  pride  of  Lucifer  !  Yes,  I  understand.  Ah  ! 
they  have  missed  me  ;  here  is  grandmamma." 

Grandmamma  ascends  the  slope,  and  exclaims  some- 


286  "NOTHING     COMES    AMISS, 

what  at  the  sight  of  her  missing  granddaughter,  stand- 
ing quietly  here,  in  deep  converse  with  a  "  rank  "  stranger. 

Dolores  springs  forward,  and  offers  her  strong  young 
arm.  "  See,  grandmamma  !  an  old  friend — the  oldest  of 
old  friends.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  Rene  Mac- 
donald  ?  This  is  he." 

"  I  know  M.  Rene  Macdonald  very  well,"  says  ma- 
dame,  smiling,  and  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I  have  heard 
his  name  on  an  average  ten  times  a  day  for  the  last  three 
years.  I  think  I  may  claim  him  as  an  acquaintance  of 
my  own,  however.  I  am  almost  certain  I  have  met  him 
before." 

"  Very  likely,  madame.  I  have  been  in  Rome  several 
months." 

"  Not  in  Rome — at  a  certain  school  fete,  at  a  certain 
quaint  little  Canadian  town.  A  young  person  we  both 
knew  played  the  role  of  Marie  Stuart,  and  two  young 
gentlemen,  sitting  near  a  certain  elderly  lady,  very  fully 
and  freely  discussed  the  actress." 

"  Pardon,"  Rene  says,  laughing  ;  "  I  recollect.  Ma- 
dame has  excellent  ears  and  eyes,  to  remember  so  long 
and  so  well." 

"Grandmamma  never  forgets  a  face  or  a  name,"  says 
Miss  Valentine,  quite  proudly  ;  "  she  is  gifted  with  second 
sight,  I  think.  Dear  me  !  how  very,  very  long  ago  that 
day  seems  now." 

"  Life  Ijas  dragged  so  wearily,  you  see,  monsieui," 
says  madame,  pinching  one  rosy  ear,  "with  this  young 
lady  since  she  has  been  torn  from  her  island  friends. 
Three  years  appear  like  a  little  forever,  do  you  hear  ? 
But  /  know  to  my  cost,  that,  'though  lost  to  sight  to 
memory  dear,'  Johnny,  Rene,  Inno,  Weesy,  noire  mere — 
the  changes  have  been  rung  on  those  beloved  names 
every  day,  and  many  times  a  day,  since." 

"And  madame  has  been  bored  to  extinction  by  us 
all,"  says  M.  Rene.  "  I  fear  so  much  of  us  in  the  past 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL:1         287 

will  naturally  prejudice  you  against  us  in  the  pres- 
ent." 

"  It  will  not  be  difficult  to  make  you  an  exception, 
young  sir,"  grandmamma  says,  graciously.  She  is  in 
high  good-humor  with  herself,  her  heiress,  and  all  the 
world  to-day.  "Here  come  Sir  Vane  and  la  contessa." 

They  come  up,  surprised  in  their  turn,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment la  contessa  has  recognized  an  acquaintance.  "  // 
Signore  Scultore  f"  she  exclaims.  "  My  dear  Dolo,  I  told 
you  I  was  having  a  bust  of  myself  done,  did  I  not  ?  No  ! 
Then  I  am.  I  go  to  the  signore's  studio  every  day.  You 
must  come  with  me  to-morrow  and  see  it.  The  signore 
does  the  most  exquisite  things,  I  assure  you." 

Sir  Vane,  standing  a  little  apart,  comes  forward  at 
this  moment,  and  there  is  .a  presentation.  Rene  bows 
rather  stiffly,  and  in  a  moment  recognizes  the  dark, 
nameless  stranger  whom  he,  and  Snowball,  and  Johnny 
rowed  over  from  St.  Gildas  that  evening  years  ago. 

"  So  you  are  the  man,"  thinks  Rene,  eying  him  with 
but  half-hidden  disdain  ;  "and  you  came  as  a  spy." 

They  meet  there,  on  the  mountain  side,  and  the  Val- 
entines go  home,  through  the  lovely  starlit  dusk.  Rene 
Macdonald  stands  and  watches  them  out  of  sight,  pleas- 
ure, pain,  he  hardly  knows  which,  the  stronger  feeling 
within  him.  It  is  the  half-forgotten  emotion,  awakened 
for  the  first  time  on  that  night  madame  has  recalled,  stir- 
ring its  nearly  extinct  embers  into  a  glow  once  more. 
How  lovely  she  has  grown — but  was  she  not  always 
lovely?  He  used  not  to  see  it  in  those  old  days,  blind 
mole  that  he  was.  And  she  has  not  changed — it  is  the 
old  Snowball,  with  the  life  and  sparkle,  as  of  yore,  in 
those  starry  blue  eyes,  with  sweetness,  and  truth,  and 
repartee  still  on  her  lips.  Her  words  are  not  very  sweet 
— never  have  been — but  too  much  sweetness  cloys,  a 
little  acidity  flavors  the  llatness  of  life's  nectar.  Who 
would  not  prefer  lemonade  to  can  sucrce?  Underneath 
it  all,  sparkle,  and  malice,  and  retort,  he  has  seen  joy — 


2S8  "NOTHING     COMES    AMISS, 

deepest,  fullest  joy  at  meeting  him.  Her  arms  have 
clasped  and  held  him,  her  first  words  have  been  words  of 
gladdest  greeting.  Dear,  dear,  dearest  little  Snowball  ! 
unspoiled  by  flattery,  by  wealth,  by  adulations,  by  the 
world,  What  a  prize  she  will  be  for  the  man  who  wins 
her!  And  that  reminds  him — he  dislikes  and  distrusts 
Sir  Vane  Valentine.  To  come  to  the  island,  to  accept 
its  hospitality,  as  a  spy  !  A  chill  feeling  of  repulsion 
fills  him.  Will  they — dare  they  think  of  giving  Snow- 
ball, fresh,  bright,  pure,  a  child  in  heart,  to  him  ?  Faugh  ! 
the  thought  sickens  him.  He  has  heard  of  this  Milordo 
Valentine,  that  he  is  a  screw  in  money  matters,  a  man 
not  liked  by  men,  a  toad  hunter,  a  tame  tabby.  He  is 
old,  too,  fully  twenty  years  her  senior.  Oh  !  it  would  be 
monstrous.  Surely  Snowball  would  never  consent.  In 
a  very  meditative  mood,  indeed,  il  Signore  Scultore  be- 
takes himself  to  his  lodgings  and  his  atelier.  It  is  an 
appartamento  not  far  from  the  grand  Palazzo  Paladino,  a 
studio  on  the  ground  floor,  and  two  or  three  private 
rooms  al  secondo.  He  can  see  the  long  rows  of  windows 
of  the  Palazzetto,  sparkling  like  great  diamonds,  hear  its 
sonorously  sweet  music  swelling  in  the  soft  night  air. 
La  contessa  gives  one  of  her  balls  to-night.  He  descends 
to  his  studio,  deserted  now  by  the  workmen,  lowers  a 
swinging  brass  lamp,  uncovers  a  marble  figure,  and 
looks  at  it. 

It  is  a  girl,  standing  on  a  windy  headland,  her  hair 
blown  back,  her  face  bent  eagerly  forward,  one  hand 
shading  her  eyes,  gazing  over  the  sea.  The  face  is  full 
of  impatient  expectation,  every  curve  instinct  with  grace 
— the  grace  of  youthful  strength  and  symmetry  in  repose. 
An  Italian  girl  has  been  his  model  for  the  figure,  the 
arms,  the  pose  of  the  head — the  face  has  been  wrought 
from  the  model  of  a  face  in  his  mind.  I  low  often  he 
has  seen  Snowball  stand  oa  Point  Lookout,  with  the 
sunset  lights  in  her  face,  her  Haxen  hair  streaming  like 
a  yellow  banner  in  the  gale,  waiting  for  Johnny  and  the 


SO    MONEY    COMES     WITHAL?         289 

Boule-de-neige  to  come  in.  He  stands,  half  smiling,  and 
gazes  long,  then,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  recovers  it,  and 
goes  over  to  one  of  the  windows.  He  leans  with  folded 
arms  on  the  gray  stone,  and  gazes  thoughtfully  and  a 
little  troubled,  at  the  flashing  lights  of  the  Palazetto. 
How  wildly  sweet  those  Strauss  waltzes  peal !  Many 
carriages  flash  by  and  draw  up  in  line.  Is  the  Valentine 
equipage  among  them,  he  wonders ;  is  she  entering 
those  "  marble  halls  "  at  this  moment,  on  the  arm  of  the 
odious  milordo. 

Next  day,  what  he  has  hoped  for,  but  hardly  dared 
expect,  comes  to  pass.  When  la  contessa  arrives  to 
sit  for  the  bust,  Miss  Valentine  is  with  her.  But — his 
workmen  around  him,  the  double  doors  of  his  studio 
open  to  the  world,  the  sculptor  at  his  work  is  a  dreamer 
of  dreams  no  more.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  rather  a 
despotic  young  autocrat.  He  places  la  contessa,  gives 
her  her  directions,  requests  Miss  Valentine  rather  per- 
emptorily to  amuse  herself  with  a  volume  of  designs  in 
the  recess  of  a  window,  and  not  talk.  That  young  lady 
opens  her  blue  eyes  at  the  tone — it  is  one  she  has  not 
been  used  to  of  late — then  smiles  a  little  to  herself,  and 
proceeds  to  examine  every  article  in  the  studio.  In  due 
course  she  reaches  the  statue  called  "  Waiting,"  and 
twitches  off  the  covering  unceremoniously.  There  is  a 
faint  feminine  exclamation.  Rene,  chipping  and  cutting 
in  silence,  is  thrilled  by  it.  Then  she  stands,  as  he  did 
last  night,  a  very  long  time  looking  at  it.  She  glances 
at  him  once,  rather  shyly,  but  his  eyes — dark  and  stern 
they  look  to-day — are  fixed  on  the  marble  features  of  the 
Contessa  Paladino.  At  last  she  obeys  his  first  command 
— goes  to  the  window  recess,  takes  up  the  big  book  and 
tries  to  interest  herself  in  the  pictures.  But  she  cannot 
— her  thoughts  interest  her  more.  She  lies  back  dreamily, 
and  looks  out  of  the  window  instead.  A  flood  of  quiv- 
ering sunbeams,  the  sound  of  bird  voices,  the  flutter  of 
multitudinous  leaves,  an  odor  of  roses  and  jasmine,  the 
13 


290  "NOTHING     COMES    AMISS." 

plash  of  a  fountain  down  in  the  stone  court — that  is 
what  she  sees  and  hears.  She  is  in  a  dream.  Rene  is 
yonder — the  brother  she  loves  ;  she  wishes  she  could  sit 
here  and  go  on  dreaming  forever  ! 

The  sitting  ends.  A  shower  of  silvery  chatter  from 
the  vivacious  young  countess  proclaims  it  as  she  rises, 
and  flutters  her  silky  skirts.  She  admires  il  Signore 
Scultore  very  much — la  contessa.  He  is  handsomer,  she 
thinks,  than  any  work  of  art  in  his  studio — she  admires 
those  lustrous,  beautiful,  dark,  grave  eyes  of  his,  that 
reticent,  stately  manner.  If  only  one  could  have  all  this 
and  that,  too,  she  sometimes  has  thought.  All  this  means 
the  glory  of  the  world,  and  the  splendor  thereof — a  big 
palazzo,  family  diamonds,  weekly  balls,  all  that  comes 
when  one  accepts  a  noble  husband  with  sixty  years  and 
much  gout.  That  stands  for  a  tall,  slender  artist  sposo, 
with  handsome  eyes  and  grave  glances,  a  dark  Saint 
Sebastian  sort  of  face,  and  a  perfect  manner.  Only  these 
things  never  go  together,  and  one  must  take  which  one 
likes  best — no  mortal  is  so  favored  by  the  gods  as  to 
have  all. 

Madam  Valentine,  going  home  from  her  afternoon 
outing  on  the  Corso,  drives  up  in  state,  presently,  for 
her  granddaughter,  Sir  Vane  in  attendance  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  offers  him  a  commission.  Will  he  make  her 
a  bust  of  Dolores  ?  She  has  wished  for  one  a  very  long 
time,  but  never  could  induce  the  restless  child  to  sit. 
She  exclaims  at  the  beauty  of  la  contessa's,  and  some 
others,  for  though  Rene  dislikes  portraits,  he  accepts 
commissions  as  yet,  being  much  too  poor  in  fact  to  de- 
cline. One  or  two  rather  great  people  have  sat  to  him  ; 
he  is  beginning  to  be  known  and  talked  of,  and  to  swim 
away  to  the  golden  shore  of  success.  Will  he  execute  a 

bust  of  Miss  Valentine,  and  will  he  be  so  very  good ? 

It  is  a  blank  check  matlame  offers  in  her  most  empress- 
like  manner,  "  and  M.  Rene  will  fill  it  up  to  suit  him- 
self," 


"WHATEVER^    LOST."  291 

An  angry  glow  suffuses  the  olive  pallor  of  his  face 
for  a  moment ;  then  his  eyes  lift,  fall  on  the  young  lady 
in  question,  and  the  reply  on  his  lips — a  rather  haughty 
reply,  too,  dies.  What  business  have  impecunious  young 
marble  carvers  with  pride  ?  it  is  a  sin  for  their  betters. 
Let  him  take  his  blank  check,  fill  it  in  handsomely,  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket.  If  madame  deals  with  him  as  a 
queen,  is  she  not  the  Great  Begum  he  called  her  ?  Does 
she  not  so  deal  with  all  tradesmen  whose  wares  she  pur- 
chases? Let  him  pocket  his  pride  and  his  price,  do  his 
work,  take  his  wage,  and  be  thankful.  Snowball  will 
be  here  daily,  and  for  many  ho.urs  each  day  ;  she  looks 
as  if  she  would  like  the  sittings  to  begin  this  moment. 

And  so  M.  Rene  Macdonald  bows  in  that  gramle 
seigneur  manner  of  his  la  contessa  so  much  admires,  and 
which  would  be  much  more  in  keeping  with  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things,  madame  thinks,  if  he  wrote  his  name 
Don  Rene ;  and  it  is  settled  that  Miss  Valentine  is  to  be 
immortalized  in  marble,  and  that  the  sittings  are  to  com- 
mence at  once. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 
"WHATEVER'S  LOST,  IT  FIRST  WAS  WON." 

IR  VANE  VALENTINE  stands  a  little  apart, 
and  strokes  his  mustache,  and  looks  cynical. 
What  a  fool  the  old  grandmamma  is,  after 
all !  And  the  fellow  is  so  picturesque  in  that 
dark  green  working-blouse,  with  his  four-and-t\ycnty 
years,  and  old  acquaintanceship  too  !  Well  !  it  is  not  a 
question  in  which  he  is  going  to  interfere.  He  is  not  in 
love — let  her  take  care  of  herself.  She  has  promised, 
and  will  keep  her  promise — he  knows  her  well  enough 
for  that.  What  does  the  rest  signify  ? 


29 2  "  WHATEVER^    LOST, 

The  sittings  begin.  Sometimes  la  contessa  comes, 
and  plays  propriety  ;  sometimes  Mrs.  Tinker  ;  sometimes 
grandmamma  herself.  There  is  nothing  to  alarm  any- 
body ;  they  seem  on  the  verge  of  an  open  quarrel  half 
the  time,  these  two.  Dolores  is  especially  and  perversely 
contradictory  and  disputatious.  Monsieur  Rene  does 
not  say  much ;  he  smiles  in  exasperating  superiority  at 
her  perpetual  fault-finding.  But  the  sharpness,  the  acidity, 
is  only  surface-deep ;  la  contessa,  at  least  sees  that.  Even 
Mrs.  Tinker  has  an  inkling  that  the  feud  between  them 
is  not  deadly — that  it  is  not  absolute  hatred  that  flashes 
out  of  the  blue  eyes  when  they  meet  the  brown. 

"My  pretty!"  that  good  old  person  says,  "what  a 
handsome  pair  you  two  do  make  !  Eh,  my  dearie,  if  it 
was  only  him,  and  not  t'other  one  !"  For  Mrs.  Tinker 
does  not  like  "t'other  one,"  does  not  approve  of  the 
coming  alliance.  "  Eh,  my  maid,  'tis  but  ill  always  to 
mate  May  and  December,"  she  says,  with  a  dismal  shake 
of  her  old  head.  Never  in  her  life  has  she  liked  Sir 
Vane  Valentine ;  never  has  she  forgiven  him  for  step- 
ping into  the  place  of  her  lost  Master  George  ;  never  has 
she  swerved  from  her  first  affection.  He  is  in  love  with 
old  madame's  money,  not  with  this  sweetest  maid  under 
the  sun,  and  she  could  find  it  in  her  leal  old  heart  to  hate 
him  for  it. 

"  Don't  'ee,  my  lovey !  don't  'ee,  dearie  !"  she  has  said, 
over  and  over  again — "  don't  'ee  marry  Sir  Vane  !  He  is 
no  match  for  thee,  my  pretty  ;  he  is  old  enough  to  be  thy 
father  ;  and  he  is  dour  and  dark,  inside  and  out.  Don't 
'ee,  my  maid  ! — don't  'ee  marry  him  !" 

"I  must,  old  lady,"  Dolores  answers,  sighing;  "it  is 
kismet — it  is  written.  Grandmamma  wishes  it ;  I  must 
please  grandmamma,  you  know.  And  I  have  promised 
— it  is  too  late  now.  Sometimes " 

"  Yes,  my  maid.     Sometimes " 

"  Sometimes,"  dreamily,  half  to  herself,  "  I  have  wished 


IT    FIRST     WAS     WON."  293 

— of  livte — I  had  not.  If  I  had  only  waited  another  day 
even " 

"  It  was  the  day  you  promised  like,  you  first  met  Mr. 
Rceney  ?"  says,  with  artful  artlessness,  Mrs.  Tinker. 

And  Dolores  starts  up  from  her  dreams,  flushing  to  the 
roots  of  her  fair  hair.  "  Hush,  nurse  !  What  am  I  say- 
ing? You  must  not  talk  of  such  things.  It  is  wiong — 
wrong  !"  She  lays  her  hand  on  her  heart,  beating  wildly. 
"  You  must  not  say  harsh  things  of  Sir  Vane.  He  is 
very  good,  and — and  I  have  promised.  It  is  too  late 
now."  There  is  a  pathetic  ring  in  these  last  words  ;  they 
end  in  a  stifled  sob,  as  she  hurries  from  the  room.  But 
it  is  only  that  she  is  very  tired,  perhaps  ;  she  was  up  at 
a  party,  the  largest  she  has  yet  attended,  last  night,  and 
the  -weather — Lent  is  drawing  near,  and  the  weather 
grows  oppressive.  It  is  so  oppressive,  indeed,  that  she 
does  not  go  out  at  all  that  day,  although  M.  Rene  Mac- 
donald  expects  her,  and  la  contessa,  who  is  more  than 
willing  to  do  chaperon  duty,  drives  up  punctually  for 
her.  She  has  a  headache,  she  says,  and  lies  in  her  dark- 
ened room,  and  sends  away  grandmamma,  under  pre- 
tense of  trying  to  sleep,  and  lets  Tinker  sit  beside  her 
instead,  and  bathe  her  hands  and  forehead  with  cologne. 
She  does  not  go  to  the  studio  for  a  week,  although  the 
bust  is  nearly  completed  now,  and  only  a  few  more  sit- 
tings are  required.  Weeks  have  passed  since  that  meet- 
ing on  the  hill-side,  and  madame  is  talking  of  quitting 
Rome  immediately  after  Easter,  and  going  to  Florence. 
They  have  lingered,  indeed,  more  on  account  of  this 
work  of  art  than  anything  else  ;  and  this  last  whim  of 
Dolores  is  rather  trying  in  consequence.  It  is  not  quite 
all  whim,  though.  The  girl  really  droops  this  warm 
spring  weather,  and  all  her  bright,  wild -rose  color  deserrj 
her. 

Grandmamma  is  very  impatient  for  the  completion 
of  the  work.  To  have  this  marble  likeness  of  her  dar- 
ling will  be  such  a  comfort  to  her  when  Dolores  is  far 


294  "WHATEVEKS    LOST, 

away.  It  is  not  a  bust,  as  was  at  first  intended  ;  the  idea 
and  the  figure  have  grown,  and  the  sittings  have  been 
mostly  standings.  It  is  called  "  At  the  Shrine."  It  is  a 
slender  girl,  with  uplifted  arms,  hands  filled  with  rose 
branches,  head  thrown  back,  face  upraised,  trying  tc 
reach  and  adorn  a  shrine  of  the  Madonna.  The  pose  is 
grace  itself;  every  outline  of  the  beautiful  hands  and 
arms,  every  curve  of  the  slight,  supple  form,  is  there  in 
the  marble.  The  fair,  youthful  face,  like  a  star,  a  flower, 
a  rose  is  filled  with  a  sweet  seriousness  of  whispered 
prayer.  Madame  is  charmed — is  lavish  of  praise. 

"  You  have  caught  her  very  trick  of  expression  when 
she  is  in  church — or  looking  at  a  holy  relic — or  listening 
to  the  grand  music  of  a  mass.  I  can  never  thank  you 
sufficiently,  my  dear  M.  Rene,  for  this  treasure." 

"  M.  Rene  has  all  the  talents,"  cries  la  contessa.  "  I 
think  /like  best  our  Dolores  when  she  is  a  little  muti- 
nous— coquettish — what  you  will.  Not  with  that  look  of 
the  angels.  She  is  everything  there  is  of  the  most 
charming,  but  she  is  only  a  girl  after  all." 

She  glances  keenly  at  the  silent  artist.  "  How  say 
you,  M.  Rene  ?"  she  demands,  gayly ;  "  is  our  Dolores 
most  charming  as  an  angel — a  saint  like  this,"  tapping 
the  marble  face  with  her  fan,  "  or  as  we  know  her — a  be- 
witching, alluring  little  coquette?" 

"A  coquette,"  repeats  grandmamma,  not  best  pleased. 
"  Dolores  is  never  that.  The  child  is  a  perfect  baby 
where  that  fine  art  is  concerned — who  should  know  that 
better  than  you,  oontessa  mia — past  mistress  as  you  are 
of  the  profession." 

But  the  little  countess  only  laughs  at  the  rebuke,  still 
looking  at  the  sculptor.  "  Signore  Rene  declines  to 
commit  himself.  Well,  he  is  very  wise.  You  will  have 
an  exquisite  likeness  at  least,  madame,  of  our  dearest 
Dolores  when — by  the  by,"  innocently,  "when  is  it 
to  be  ?" 

"In   the  autumn,"   madame  answers,   absently,   her 


IT    FIRST     WAS     WON."  295 

glass  still  up  examining  critically  the  statue,  "they  will 
spend  the  winter  in  travel,  and  go  to  England  in  the 
spring.  I  shall  remain  in  Rome,  I  think."  She  sighs 
and  drops  her  glass.  "  When  will  you  send  me  my 
treasure,  Mr.  Macdonald?" 

"  In  a  very  few  weeks  now,  madame."  He  answers 
gravely,  but  la  contessa  still  keenly  watching,  is  not 
much  the  wiser.  He  is  always  so  grave,  this  austere 
young  M.  Rene;  it  becomes  him,  she  thinks.  One  can- 
not figure  him  frivolous,  or  frittering  his  time  away  in 
foolish  small  talk  and  feeble  platitudes.  Silence  is 
golden  on  such  lips  as  his.  But  all  the  same  he  is  hope- 
lessly, irretrievably,  despairingly  in  love  with  Dolores 
Valentine. 

It  chances — for  the  first  time  in  all  those  months  of 
meeting — that  next  day  Miss  Valentine  and  M.  Rene 
find  themselves  alone,  together,  in  the  studio.  Mrs. 
Tinker  is  there,  it  is  true,  in  the  flesh — in  the  spirit  she 
is  countless  worlds  away  in  the  land  of  dreams.  It  is  a 
very  warm  afternoon,  there  is  that  excuse  for  her.  And 
the  slumberous  rustle  of  the  leaves,  the  twitter  of  the 
birds,  the  heavy  perfume  of  the  flowers,  outside  the  open 
window,  are  soporific  in  their  tendencies.  The  sitting  is 
almost  over  ;  Rene  has  chipped  away  in  the  drowsy  still- 
ness, without  a  word,  Miss  Valentine  too  is  half  asleep 
in  the  perfumed  greenish  hush.  It  is  near  the  hour  of 
Ave  Maria,  near  the  time  to  go.  And  there  is  to  be  but 
one  more  coming  after  this.  "Only  one  more,"  he  says, 
aloud,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  thought.  "  Can  you  realize 
that  it  is  almost  three  months  since  we  met  there  at  the 
villa  Ludovisi  ?  When  have  months  so  flown  before?" 

She  sighs,  and  is  silent.  Yes,  they  have  flown — life's 
best  days  always  do  fly. 

"  You  leave  Rome  soon  ?"  Rene  asks. 

"  Next  week,"  another  sigh  "  I  suppose  you  stay  on, 
Rene  ?" 

"  At  my  work — yes.    I  have  all  I  can  do.     Snowball," 


296  "  WHATEVER^    LOST, 

suddenly  stopping  in  his  chipping  and  looking  at  her 
full,  "  you  are  going  to  be  married  ?"  It  is  the  first  time 
the  very  first,  that  the  subject  has  ever  been  alluded  to 
Sir  Vane  has  been  there  many  times,  of  course.  And  it 
is  no  secret,  and  la  contessa  has  discussed  it  freely.  Of 
course  he  knows,  has  always  known,  but  uo  syllable  has 
ever  passed  his  lips  before.  His  eyes,  his  voice,  are  stern 
now;  she  feels  arraigned  —  guilty.  Her  head  droops^ 
her  eyes  fall  before  his. 

"  Yes,  Rene." 

"  To  Sir  Vane  Valentine  ?" 

"  Yes." 

A  pause.  He  works  again ;  Mrs.  Tinker  sleeps. 
Slanting  sunbeams  quiver  about  them;  Dolores  droops 
a  little  in  her  chair. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  he  says  presently,  "  the  day  we 
parted  on  Isle  Perdrix  ?  Do  you  remember  our  last 
walk — our  last  talk  ?  I  asked  you  then  not  to  marry  this 
man,  and  you " 

"  Rene  !" 

"  And  you  said  you  would  not.  Even  then,  you  see, 
I  was  among  the  prophets.  I  felt  it  would  come.  Snow- 
ball," suddenly  again,  in  deepest,  tersest  tones,  "  why  do 
you  marry  him  ?" 

"  Rene " 

"  Why  do  you  marry  this  man  ?  You  do  not  care  for 
him  ;  he  cares  nothing  for  you.  There  is  the  fortune — 
yes.  Is  money  everything,  then  ?  are  you,  too,  mer- 
cenary, Snowball  ?" 

"Rene,  listen " 

"  Ah,  what  is  there  to  say?  I  know — I  know.  Your 
grandmother  wishes  it — you  owe  her  much — Jie  wishes  it ; 
a  fortune  is  at  stake.  Yes,  I  admit  all  that.  But  there  is 
something  else  in  marriage  besides  money  ;  there  is  love. 
Where  is  the  love  here  ?  There  is  love  of  riches  ;  Sil 
Vane  has  that,  I  grant  you.  But  are  you  to  be  so  bought 
and  sold,  Snowball  ?" 


IT    FIRST     WAS     WON?  297 

Her  answer  is  a  sob  ;  she  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands.  He  leaves  her  nothing  to  say.  Love  !  What  is 
this  rapture  that  fills  her  as  she  listens — fills  her  with 
ecstasy  and  agony  at  once  ?  He  throws  down  chisel  and 
mallet,  and  comes  and  stands  beside  her,  pale  with  all 
that  is  in  his  heart. 

"Is  it  too  late?"  he  asks.  "  Snowball,  listen  to  me — 
look  at  me.  My  heart's  darling,  don't  you  know  that  I 
love  you  ?  How  can  I  see  you  given  to  this  man — so  old, 
so  cold,  so  mercenary,  so  unworthy,  and  not  speak  ?  I 
have  no  right — no,  I  am  poor,  a  struggling  artist ;  you 
are  an  heiress,  but  you  are  my  Snowball  too,  whom  I 
have  loved  always — always,  always  !" 

•'  Always  ?"  she  repeats,  and  tries  to  laugh  ;  "  how  can 
you  say  so  ?  We  have  been  quarreling  all  our  lives." 

"  Ah,  there  are  quarrels  and  quarrels.  I  have  loved 
you  always.  How  can  I  stand  by  in  silence  and  see  you 
given  to  this  loveless  marriage — this  unloving  man?  It 
is  never  too  late,  Snowball  ;  draw  back  while  there  is  yet 
time." 

"There  is  no  time  ;  it  w  too  late.  No  one  urged  me, 
only  I  knew  it  would  please  them  all.  That  very  day  of 
our  first  meeting,  not  an  hour  before  you  came  upon  me, 
I  gave  him  my  word." 

"One  hour  before — one  hour  too  late  !"  he  says,  bit- 
terly. "  Well,  perhaps  there  is  a  fate  in  these  things. 
What  hope  could  there  be  for  me,  at  the  best  ?  Your 
grandmother  would  never  have  given  you  to  me.  If  he 
were  but  worthy — if  he  but  cared  for  you,  you  for  him, 
ever  so  little,  I  would  die  before  I  would  speak.  I  would 
have  bidden  God  to  bless  you,  and  gone  on  my  way,  my 
secret  in  my  heart,  to  the  end.  But  it  is  because  I  know 
you  will  not  be  happy.  Happy  !"  he  starts  up,  and  be- 
gins walking  up  and  down,  with  flashing  eyes;  "you 
will  be  miserable  !  That  man  is  capable  of  any  baseness 
— of  being  brutal,  even  \.Q  you  !" 

"  Rene,  hush  !  You  frighten  me.  You  must  not.  Oh, 
13* 


2g8-  "  WHATEVER^    LOST." 

how  wrong  all  this  is !  Do  not  say  another  word ! 

How  can  you  make  me — make  me "  She  covers  her 

face  again,  and  cries  aloud. 

"  Forgive  me  !"  he  says.  He  is  by  her  side  in  an  in- 
stant, stricken  with  remorse.  "You  are  right.  I  will 
say  no  more  ;  I  should  not  have  spoken  at  all.  But  your 
happiness  is  so  near  to  me — so  dear  !  I  would  give  my 
life  to  secure  it.  And  after  to-morrow  we  may  meet  no 
more.  The  thought  of  that  has  been  maddening  me  all 
these  weeks  ;  the  thought  that  so  soon — so  soon  you  will 
be  that  man's  wife,  and  gone  out  of  my  life  forever ! 
Fate  deals  hardly  by  some  of  us,  Snowball."  There  is 
silence  for  a  little.  He  stands  by  her  chair.  Has  the 
weeping  ceased?  The  drooping  face  is  hidden  still  ;  the 
loose  bright  hair  veils  it,  and  fails  across  his  arms,  as  he 
leans  lightly  on  her  chair-back.  "  Snowball,"  he  says, 
"little  friend,  tell  me  this.  I  will  ask  no  more,  and  it 
will  be  something — everything — in  all  the  years  without 
you  that  are  to  come.  If  I  had  been  sooner  that  day  on 
the  hill-side — that  fatal  first  day " 

He  breaks  off ;  he  can  see  the  quiver  that  goes 
through  the  bowed  figure  as  he  speaks,  but  man-like,  he 
will  not  spare  her.  "Tell  me,"  he  pleads,  "one  word 
only,  it  is  so  little — so  little,  Man  Dieu,  and  I  lose  so 
much " 

But  the  word  does  not  come.  There  is  a  movement 
instead,  a  small  cold  hand  slips  into  his,  the  slender, 
chilly  fingers  clasp  his  close.  He  is  answered. 

"Miss  Dolores,  my  maid,"  murmurs  a  sleepy  voice, 
"is  it  nearly  over?  I've  been  dozin,  a  bit,  I'm  afeard,  in 
the  stillness  like  and  the  heat.  There's  them  evening 
bells  ;  it  must  be  time  to  be  going." 

So  Mrs.  Tinker  brings  them  back  to  the  world,  and 
out  of  their  dangerous  dream.  Ave  Maria  is  ringing 
from  campanile  and  belfry,  up  against  the  purple  Roman 
sky,  and  it  is  time  to  go  home  to  grandmamma  and  din- 
ner, and  Sir  Vane.  It  is  ver}r  warm  still,  the  air  quivers 


"  FT  RE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT."    299 

with  a  sort  of  white  after-glow,  but  the  girl  shivers  as 
she  rises.  It  is  going  straight  out  of  paradise  to — well, 
to  a  gray,  grim,  old-fashioned  house,  and  gray,  grim, 
old-fashioned  people.  But  duty  calls,  and  there  is  a 
silent  hand-clasp,  and  she  goes.  The  carriage  is  waiting 
outside  the  wide  stone  court,  and  they  enter  and  are 
driven  away.  Long  after  they  have  gone,  long  after  the 
workmen  depart,  long  after  Ave  Maria  ceases  ringing, 
long  after  golden  clusters  come  out,  and  burn  in  the 
purple,  Rene  Macdonald  stands  there,  with  folded  arms, 
and  stares  out  at  the  gemmed,  flower-scented  twilight 
with  blank  eyes  that  see  nothing  of  the  beauty,  with 
blank  mind  that  holds  but  one  thought — a  thought  that 
keeps  iterating  itself  over  and  over  again  with  the  dull 
persistence  of  such  things,  putting. itself  into  words  of 
its  own  volition,  and  ding-dinging  through  his  brain. 
"  One  hour  too  late  !  One  hour  too  late  !" 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

"  FIRE  THAT   IS   CLOSEST   KEPT,  BURNS   MOST  OF  ALL,' 


ADAME'S  treasure,  "At  the  Shrine,"  comes 
home  duly,  and  Miss  Valentine  goes  no  more  to 
the  studio.  Whether  la  contessa  has  dropped 
a  hint,  whether  madame  herself  suddenly 
awakens  to  a  sense  of  latent  danger,  whether  Sir  Vane  has 
sneered  audibly  in  spite  of  himself,  who  knows  ?  Miss 
Valentine  goes  no  more  to  the  studio,  and  by  grand- 
mamma's express  desire.  She  looks  rather  keenly  at 
the  young  lady,  and  madame's  looks  at  all  times  are 
exceedingly  keen,  piercing,  sidelong — none  may  hope  to 
escape  them — as  she  speaks,  but  she  sees  little.  The  girJ 


300      "FIRE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT, 

is  very  pale,  she  looks  a  trifle  fagged  and  weary,  and  out 
of  sorts,  but  it  is  oppressive  spring  weather,  and  what  is 
to  be  expected  in  these  sultry  weeks?  She  says  nothing 
— nothing  at  all,  except  in  a  spiritless  voice,  strangely 
unlike  the  clear,  ringing,  joyous  tones  of  Dolores. 
"  Very  well,  grandmamma,"  and  so  turns  and  walks 
slowly  and  listlessly  up  to  her  room. 

Grandmamma  decides  she  is  not  in  love  with  the 
dark  and  picturesque  M.  Rene,  the  fortuneless  sculptor 
with  the  Vandyke  face,  and  grave  brown  eyes,  but  all 
the  same  the  child  needs  change,  needs  it  badly,  and 
must  have  it  at  once.  So  they  prepare  to  go. 

On  the  day  but  one  before  their  departure  for  fresher 
fields,  and  breezes  new  and  cool,  a  surprise  comes  to 
good  Mrs.  Tinker.  She  accompanies  the  family  of 
course.  Madame  goes  nowhere  without  her,  and  she  is 
busy  in  the  midst  of  much  packing,  when  she  is  sum- 
moned to  her  own  particular  sitting-room,  to  see  a 
visitor.  Going  in  haste,  and  rather  breathless,  she  finds 
awaiting  her  a  young  woman,  whose  face  and  dress  pro- 
claim her  nationality  before  she  speaks  a  word.  That 
first  word  puts  it  beyond  doubt.  "  I  guess  you've  forgot 
me  likely,  Mis'  Tinker,"  says  this  young  woman,  in  a 
nervous  tone,  rising  as  she  speaks.  "  It's  a  pretty  con- 
siderable spell  sence  we  met  afore — nigh  onto  fifteen 
years,  I  reckon." 

"Why,  lord  bless  me  !"  exclaims  Mrs.  Tinker,  adjust- 
ing her  spectacles  in  direst  amazement.  "I  do  declare 
if  it  isn't  Jemima  Ann  !" 

"Yes,  Mis' Tinker;  I'm  awful  glad  you  ain't  forgot 
me.  I'm  over  here  with  a  family ;  Bosting  folks  they 
be,  and  now,  the  lady,  she  up  and  died.  She  was  sort  o' 
peaky  and  pinin'  like  all  the  passage.  An  so  I'm  out  o' 
place,  and  hearing  you  was  here,  Mis'  Tinker,  I  thought, 

for  old  time's  sake,  and  poor  Aunt  Samanthy "  Here 

Jemima  Ann  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  Mrs. 
Tinker  sighs  responsively.  Aunt  Samantha  has  gone 


SURNS    MOST    OF    ALL."  301 

the  way  all  landladies,  even  the  best,  must  go  some  time 
— the  way  of  all  flesh. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opens  suddenly,  and  a  young 
lady — an  apparition,  it  seems  to  Jemima  Ann — in  gray 
silk  and  amber  ringlets,  comes  in,  and  pauses  at  sight  of 
the  stranger.  "Oh,  come  in,  my  dearie  !"  says  Mrs. 
Tinker.  "  I  was  just  going  to  you  to  ask  your  advice. 
You've  often  heard  me  speak  of  Jemima  Ann,  who  was 
so  good  to  you  when  you  stopped  for  a  week  at  her  aunt's, 
and  who  waited  on" — lowering  her  voice — "your  poor 
ma  ?  Well,  this  is  Jemima  Ann,  Miss  Dolores,  my  lovey, 
and  she  is  out  of  place,  and " 

But  the  young  lady  waits  for  no  more.  Her  fair  face 
flushes  up,  she  crosses  the  room,  and  holds  out  both 
hands.  "And  you  are  Jemima  Ann  !  Oh  !  I  have  heard 
all  that — of  your  goodness  and  affection — all  that  you 
did  for  me,  for  my  poor  mother,  in  the  past.  I  was  a 
baby  then,  too  young  to  know  or  thank  you,  or  feel 
grateful  ;  but  I  feel  all  now.  I  thank  you  with  my 
whole  heart.  If  there  is  anything  we  can  do  for  you — 
anything — you  may  be  sure  it  shall  be  done." 

Jemima  Ann  gasps,  stands,  stares.  "  You  ! — you  ! — 
why,  Lor'!  You  never  air  little  Snowball,  grown  up  like 
this  !" 

"  Little  Snowball — no  one  else — to  whom  you  were 
so  very,  very  good.  Not  so  little  now  though,  you  see. 
And  what  are  you  doing  in  Rome,  of  all  places,  Jemima 
Ann  ?" 

Jemima  Ann  explains,  with  considerable  confusion, 
caused  by  the  shock  of  finding  little  Snowball  in  this 
graceful  young  lady.  Aunt  Samanthy  died,  the  boarders 
dispersed,  Jemima  Ann  went  down  to  Bosting  (strong 
nasal  twang  on  the  first  syllable),  took  service  there  v;ith 
a  lady  out  of  health.  Be'n  livin'  with  that  lady  right 
along  sence.  Lady  ordered  to  Europe  by  doctors  for 
change  of  air.  Took  Jemima  Ann  with  her  as  kind  o' 
nurse-tender.  Up  and  died,  here  in  Rome,  a  week  ago, 


302     "FIRE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT, 

after  all  her  trouble  crossin'  over.  And  Jemima  Ann 
finds  herself  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  By  chance 
she  had  heard  the  Valentine  family  were  here,  and 
allowed  Mis'  Tinker  might  be  still  with  them.  On  that 
chance  has  come,  and — is  here. 

"  And  here  you  shall  stay  !"  cries  impetuous  Miss 
Valentine.  "  Why  should  you  think  of  going  back  all 
that  way,  and  friends  who  owe  you  so  much,  here? 
Some  day  I  will  go  back  myself,  if  I  can," — a  wistful, 
longing,  homesick  look  comes  into  the  blue  eyes — "and 
I  will  take  you.  Meantime," — gayly — "  consider  your- 
self my  maid." 

"And  that  is  little  Snowball !— little  Snowball !  So 
peart,  and  chipper,  and  sassy,  and  cunnin'-like,  as  she  used 
to  be  !  Little  Snowball  growed  up  into  such  a  beautiful 
and  elegant  young  lady  as  that  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  still 
dazed.  She  accepts  the  offer,  of  course,  "  right  glad  to 
get  it,"  as  she  says,  and  is  especially  detailed  off  into 
Miss  Valentine's  particular  service. 

Sir  Vane  puts  up  his  glass,  and  stares  at  her,  the  first 
time  they  chance  to  meet,  as  though  she  were  a  monster 
of  the  antediluvian  world  come  to  light  here  in  this  Ro- 
man household.  Certainly  she  is  as  unlike  as  possible 
their  Italian  servants.  He  has  forgotten,  of  course,  the 
slipshod  handmaid  of  the  Clangville  boarding-house,  but 
Miss  Hopkins  has  not  forgotten  him. 

"  Oh  !  you  may  stare,"  she  remarks,  mentally  ;  "  you 
ain't  so  much  to  look  at  yourself,  when  all's  said  and 
done.  You  never  were  a  beauty  the  best  o'  times,  and 
fifteen  years  standing  to  sour  ain't  improved  you  much. 
I'm  awful  sorry  to  hear  my  Miss  Snowball  is  going  to 
throw  herself  away  on  you.  Don't  know  what  she  sees 
in  you,  I'm  sure.  /  wouldn't  hev  you  if  you  was  hung 
with  diamonds — though  you  mayn't  think  so." 

Madame  lifts  her  eyebrows  over  this  latest  whim  of 
Dolores,  but  laughs  and  makes  no  objection.  She  will 
be  an  unique  maid  certainly,  but  if  it  is  the  child's  fancy 


BURNS    MOST    OF    ALL."  303 

— and  a  servant  more  or  less  in  an  establishment  like 
this  matters  little.  She  is  an  American,  friendless  in  a 
foreign  land  ;  it  is  like  the  dear  girl's  gentle,  generous 
heart  to  compassionate  and  care  for  all  such.  But  if 
madame  knew — knew  that  this  stolid,  homely,  rather 
clumsy  Yankee  woman  had  closed  the  dying  eyes  of 
Mile.  Mimi  Trillon,  had  ministered  to  her  for  days  be- 
fore, knew  the  whole  well-hidden  secret  of  the  trapezist's 
life  and  death — be  very  sure  the  massive  portone  of  the 
old  Roman  house  would  nev?er  have  seen  her  pass  in, 
and  many  leagues  of  blue  water  intervened  between  her 
and  the  fair,  stately  daughter  of  the  house.  But  grand- 
ma,mmas  are  not  to  know  everything;  the  long,  long 
conferences  of  the  past  are  held  with  closed  doors,  in  the 
dim,  fragrant  dusk  of  mademoiselle's  boudoir.  Lying 
back,  her  slim  figure  draped  in  those  pale  lustrous  silks 
and  fine  laces  madame  loves  to  deck  her  darling  in,  her 
fingers  laced  behind  her  golden  head,  Miss  Valentine 
nestles  in  the  blue  satin  depths  of  her  low  chair,  and 
listens  by  the  hour  to  Jemima  Ann  Hopkins  telling  of 
that  time  so  long  ago,  when  little  Snowball  Trillon  came 
suddenly  into  her  life  to  brighten  its  dull  drab,  and  of 
the  beauty  and  brightness,  and  tragic  death  of  the  young 
mother.  Of  the  belated  suppers,  of  the  many  lovers,  of 
the  hilarious  state  in  which  poor  Mimi  sometimes  came 
home,  she  discreetly  says  nothing.  Jemima  Ann  has  a 
delicacy  and  tact  of  her  own,  under  her  ginger-colored 
complexion  and  down-East  drawl. 

"At  the  Shrine"  comes  home,  and  is  placed  in  ma- 
dame's  most  private  and  particular  sitting-room,  with  a 
pink  silk  curtain  so  draped  as  to  throw  a  perpetual  rosy 
glow  over  it,  and  friends  come  and  gaze,  and  admire,  and 
other  orders  flow  in  upon  the  talented  young  artist. 
Only  the  young  lady  herself  says  nothing — she  stands 
and  looks  at  it,  with  loosely  clasped  hands,  and  a  misty 
far-away  look  that  madame  has  an  especial  objection  to 
in  her  great  star-like  eyes. 


304     "FIRE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT, 

"Well,  Dolores,"  she  says,  sharply,  "  are  you  asleep 
— in  a  dream — that  you  stand  there,  and  say  nothing  ? 
Do  you  not  admire  this  exquisite  gem?" 

"  It  is  very  pretty,  grandmamma." 

"  Very  pretty,  grandmamma  !"  mimicking  the  listless 
tone,  "  and  that  is  all  you  find  to  say.  I  must  tell  this 
to  my  clever  Mr.  Rene,  that  you  are  the  only  one  who 
has  not  seen  his  statue  and  not  been  charmed.  I  say  he 
has  caught  your  very  expression — it  is  the  most  perfect 
thing  of  its  kind  I  ever  saw.  It  will  be  a  great — the 
greatest  comfort  to  me,  when  I — when  you  are  gone." 

"  Dearest  grandmamma  !"  The  girl  comes  and  puts 
her  arms  about  her,  as  she  sits,  and  the  fair  head  droops 
in  her  lap.  "  You  are  too  good  to  me.  You  love  me  too 
much.  No  one  will  ever  care  for  me  again  like  that.  It 
is  not  well  to  be  spoiled.  Grandmamma,  I  wish  I  were 
not  going  away." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  An  old  grandmother,  however 
fond,  cannot  expect  to  keep  her  little  one  to  herself 
always.  And  what,  do  you  mean  by  no  one  loving  you 
again  ?  Sir  Vane " 

"  Ah  !"  says  Dolores,  and  something  in  the  sound  of 
the  little  word  makes  madame  pause  a  moment. 

"  You  doubt  it  ?  You  need  not,  my  dear.  He  is  fond 
of  you — very  fond  of  you,  believe  me.  He  is  reticent — 
reserved  by  nature — it  is  not  his  way  to  show  it,  and  he 
is  older  than  you — it  is  the  one  thing  /object  to  in  this 
union,  but,  for  all  that,  my  dearest,  I  am  confident  he 
loves  you  with  all  his  heart." 

"Ah!"  repeats  Miss  Valentine,  and  laughs,  "has  he 
told  you  so,  grandmamma  ?  It  is  more  than  he  has 
ventured  to  tell  me.  With  the  best  inclinations  in  the 
world  to  be  credulous  in  such  a  point,  I  fear  the  effort 
would  be  too  great.  But  what  does  it  matter  after  all," 
a  sigh  here,  that  is  half  a  sob,  "  it  will  be  all  the  same 
fifty  years  hence." 

"  My  darling,  that  is  a  dreary  philosophy  from  youth- 


BURNS    MOST    OF    ALL."  305 

fill  lips.  Why  are  you  so  sad — so  listless,  of  late,  so 
weary  of  all  that  used  to  set  you  wild  with  delight  ?  Is 
it  that  you  are  out  of  health — that  this  heat " 

"Oh,  yes,  grandmamma!"  rather  eagerly;  "that  is 
it — this  heat.  Any  one  would  wilt,  with  the  thermometei 
up  among  the  nineties.  And  the  spring  is  so  long,  so 
long.  I  grow  tired  of  this  perpetual  staring  sunshine, 
and  the  smell  of  the  roses  and  orange  trees.  I  would 
give  a  year  of  my  life  for  one  day  of  poor  old  Isle  Pcr- 
drix,  and  its  sea  fogs,  and  bleak  whistling  winds."  And 
then,  to  madame's  infinite  dismay  and  distress,  all  in  a 
moment,  the  fair  head  is  buried  low,  and  the  slender 
form  is  rent  and  shaken  with  a  very  tempest  of  sobs. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !"  is  all  madame  can-say  in  hei 
deep  consternation.  "Oh  !  my  little  one,  what  is  this?" 

But  with  a  great  effort,  the  summer  tempest  ends  as 
quickly  as  it  began  ;  a  few  hysteric  sobs  hurriedly  sup- 
pressed, and  then  a  great  calm.  "  Forgive  me,  grand- 
mamma— dear,  dearest,  best  grandmamma  that  ever  was 
in  the  world — forgive  me  for  this  !  I  did  not  mean — 
only  I  am  so  tired,  so  tired  out  with  it  all.  If  I  were 
away,  I  would  b»  better.  Take  me  away  from  Rome, 
grandmamma." 

"/$•  there  anything  in  it?"  thinks  madame,  in  dire 
dismay,  a  little  later,  and  alone.  "Did  she  go  too  much 
to  that  studio  ?  He  is  very  handsome,  and  she  knew  him 
always.  Ho\v  foolish,  how  extremely  foolish  and  rash,  I 
have  been  !" 

But  it  is  not  too  late  yet — at  least  madame  thinks  so  ; 
one  may  always  hope  so  much  for  young  persons  under 
twenty,  and  time  and  distance  are  such  capital  cures. 
They  depart  at  once,  with  their  maid-servanis  and  their 
man-servants,  and  the  house  in  Rome  is  shut  up  for  the 
present.  Madame  proposes,  drearily  enough,  to  occupy 
it  with  her  faithful  Tinker  this  winter  alone. 

M.  Rene  Macdonald,  among  his  clay  casts,  and  plasta 


306     "FIRE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT, 

figures,  and  brown,  dark-eyed  Roman  models  of  saints 
and  brigands,  works  away  alone  these  sultry  May  days. 
He  does  not  mind  the  heat,  he  likes  it  ;  he  is  absorbed 
in  his  work,  feverishly  so,  indeed.  He  grows  thin  in 
Ihese  long,  lonely,  hard-working  hours  ;  his  brown  eyes 
— "  eyes  like  golden  Genoa  velvet,"  la  contessa  has  once 
said — take  a  deeper,  darker  orbit ;  his  olive  cheek  grows 
hollow.  So  la  contessa,  who  flits  in  and  out  at  times, 
like  the  bird  of  Paradise  she  is,  tells  him  gayly.  But  he 
grows  no  less  handsome,  she  thinks — pining,  pouf !  for 
la  bambinella.  Pretty  ?  Yes  ;  la  contessa  could  make  a 
prettier  face  in  pink  and  white  wax,  any  day  !  And  it  is 
for  her  this  Signore  Rene,  who  looks  like  one  of  his  own 
gods,  and.  carries  himself  like  a  king  ;  who  has  the  face 
of  a  Raphael,  and  the  genius  too — grows  thin,  and  silent, 
and  stern,  and  shuts  himself  up  like  a  hermit  in  his  cell. 
La  contessa  does  //  Signore  Scultore  the  honor  to  be  deeply 
interested  in  his  case,  introduces  him  to  half  his  patrons, 
lavishes  invitations  upon  him,  and  meets  with  the  usual 
reward  of  goodness  in  this  world — indifference,  ingrati- 
tude. M.  Rene  wishes,  irritably  enough  sometimes,  this 
flirting  little  painted  butterfly  would  spread  her  gorgeous 
wings,  and  fly  off  to  other  victims  and  leave  him  alone. 
But  la  contessa  thinks  otherwise — she  can  plant  her  sting 
like  a  wasp,  butterfly  though  she  be.  If  this  artist — 
marble  like  his  own  creation — will  not  fall  down  and 
admire,  she  will  at  least  awake  within  him  some  other 
feeling.  He  must  be  human  at  least  in  some  things — 
human  enough  to  feel  pain.  All  she  can  inflict  he  shall 
have  as  his  punishment.  She  flutters  in  to  tell  him  in 
her  vivacious  way  when  the  Valentines  leave  Rome  ;  she 
flutters  in  to  tell  him  one  sparkling  October  day,  just  five 
months  later,  of  a  fashionable  marriage  at  Nice. 

He  has  spent  these  months  in  the  solitude  of  his 
workshop,  and  sculpture,  at  its  best,  is  not  a  sociable  rxrt. 
He  has  been  working  hard,  commissions  have  been  plen- 
tiful enough,  and  a  fair  guerdon  of  both  fame  and  gold 


3UXNS    MOST    OF    ALL.n  307 

has  been  won.  He  might  have  won  friends,  too,  friends 
well  worth  the  winning,  had  he  so  chosen  But  he  is 
unsocial  in  these  days  ;  even  among  his  brothers  of  the 
chisel  he  cares  to  cultivate  few  friendships  But  he  is  in 
fairly  good  spirits  on  this  particular  day,  for  the  early 
post  has  brought  him  a  letter  from  a  friend,  long  living 
in  Russia,  but  now  en  route  for  Rome. 

Paul  Farrar  is  on  his  way  to  Italy,  and  it  is  to  Pau". 
Farrar  Rene  owes  everything,  the  recognition  and  culti- 
vation of  his  talent — his  studio  in  Rome,  his  first  success. 
In  a  couple  of  weeks  at  most  Paul  Farrar  will  be  here. 

So  Rene  is  whistling  cheerily  as  he  chips,  and  for 
once  the  haunting  ghost  that  seldom  leaves  him  is  laid — 
a  ghost  in  "  sheen  of  satin  and  shimmer  of  pearls"  with 
bright  hair  and  blue-bell  eyes.  Then,  like  a  scented, 
silk-draped  apparition,  the  Contessa  Paladino  is  before 
him. 

She  is  not  alone — a  Neapolitan  marchese  and  a  Brit- 
ish attache  form  her  body-guard.  She  has  been  absent 
from  Rome  nearly  all  summer,  and  is  full  of  sparkling 
chatter  and  silvery  small  talk  as  usual. 

"And  the  wedding  is  over — milordo's — but  you  have 
heard  that,  of  course,  signore  mio  ?"  she  says,  gayly, 
apropos  of  nothing  that  has  gone  before. 

"  I  "hear  nothing,  madame.  News  from  the  great 
world  never  pierces  the  walls  of  my  workshop,  except 
what  you  are  good  enougli  to  tell  me." 

The  little  touch  of  sarcasm  in  the  last  words  are  not 
lost  on  la  contessa.  Neither  is  the  quick  contraction  of 
eyebrows  and  lips,  and  a  perceptible  paling  of  the  dark 
face.  "  Che  !  Che  !  then  it  is  for  me  to  give  you  the  good 
news.  But  I  surely  thought — such  friends  as  you  seemed 
— that  she  would  have  done  it  herself.  And  it  is  all 
quite  two  weeks  old,  and  you  have  not  heard.  She  has 
her  victim,  as  naturalists  impale  beetles,  on  a  pin,  and 
watches  with  dancing,  malicious  eyes  the  effect  of  her 
words.  But  he  works  on,  and  gives  no  sign. 


308     "FIRE     THAT    IS    CLOSEST    KEPT." 

'La  Signorina  looked  lovely,  exquisite — every  one 
said  so  ;  and  Dio  mia  !  how  she  was  dressed  !  It  was  the 
wedding-robe  and  jewelry  of  a  princess.  The  bride- 
maids — eight  of  them — were  all  English;  four  in  pink, 
and  four  in  blue.  Milordo  was  solemn,  and  stiff,  and 
black  as  usual — blacker  than  usual,  I  think.  They  are 
to  travel  until  spring,  and  then  return  to  their  native 
fogs.  Bonne-mamma  comes  here,  you  know.  Of  your 
charity,  go  to  see  and  console  her,  Signore  Rene ;  the 
poor  grandmamma !  She  is  desole  sconsolato." 

He  says  something ;  it  is  brief,  and  sounds  indifferent, 
and  still  works  on. 

"  I  saw  Sir  Vane  and  Lady  Valentine,"  says  the  Eng- 
lishman, who  is  examining  the  figure  called  "Waiting" 
through  his  glass.  "  She  is  very  beautiful,  quite  the  most 
beautiful  person  I  have — "  he  checks  himself  just  in  time, 
for  la  contessa's  eyes  are  already  looking  daggers — "this 
face  resembles  her,  I  think.  Is  it  a  portrait  ?" 

And  Rene  works  on,  only  conscious  of  one  thing — an 
unuttered  wish  that  they  would  pfo.  But  they  do  not. 
They  linger,  and  look,  and  admire,  and  criticise,  until  he 
feels  as  if  the  sound  of  their  voices  were  driving  him 
mad.  La  contessa  remains  until  she  is  absolutely  forced 
to  depart,  and  goes  with  a  petulant  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment under  her  gay  "  Addio,  signore."  She  really  can- 
not tell  whether  this  exasperating  young  sculptor,  as 
cold,  as  hard,  as  any  of  his  own  blocks  of  marble,  cares 
or  not. 

Cold,  hard  !  If  she  could  only  but  have  seen  him, 
when,  the  atelier  doors  closed,  locked,  he  stands  there 
alone  with  his  love,  his  loss,  his  despair !  Married,  and 
to  Sir  Vane  Valentine  !  Ah  !  la  contessa,  even  your  out- 
raged vanity,  from  feminine  spite — the  hardest  thing 
under  heaven  to  satisfy — might  have  had  its  fill  and  to 
spare,  could  you  have  looked  through  those  locked  doors 
and  seen. 


"FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  £OATS"  309 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"FORTUNE    BRINGS    IN    SOME   BOATS    THAT  ARE    NOT 
STEERED." 


T  is  the  afternoon  of  a  raw  and  rainy  October 
day.  An  express  is  thundering  rapidly  Rome- 
ward  in  even  more  of  a  hurry  than  usual,  for 
it  is  trying  to  make  up  half  an  hour  of  lost 
time.  In  a  compartment  there  sits  by  himself  a  man, 
bearing  upon  him,  from  head  to1  foot,  the  stamp  of  steady 
travel.  He  is  big,  he  is  brown,  he  has  dark  resolute  eyes 
— eyes  at  once  gentle  and  strong,  kindly  and  keen.  The 
mouth  suits  the  eyes  ;  it  is  square-cut,  determined-look- 
ing, with  just  that  upward  curve  at  the  corners  that  tells 
you  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  explain  the  point  of  a 
joke  to  him.  His  hair  is  profuse  and  dark,  sprinkled  a 
little  with  gray,  though  he  looks  no  more  than  forty,  and 
is  inclined  to  be  kinky  and  curl.  His  square,  broad 
shoulders  and  erect  mien  givj  him  a  little  the  look  of  a 
military  man.  But  he  is  not  ;  he  is  only  a  successful 
speculator,  coming  to  Rome  after  a  prolonged  sojourn 
in  Russia  and  the  East.  A  few  days  ago  he  landed  at 
Marseilles,  now  he  is  speeding  along  at  a  thundering 
rate  toward  the  Holy  City,  and  a  certain  greatly  esteemed 
young  friend  he  expects  to  find  there. 

"Rene  won't  know  me  with  all  the  beard  off,"  he 
thinks,  stroking  from  custom  the  place  where  a  heavy 
mustache  used  to  be.  "  It  was  a  pity,  but  it  had  to  go. 
It  was  so  confoundedly  hot  there  in  Cairo  I  would  have 
taken  off  my  flesh  as  well,  if  I  could,  and  sat  in  my 
bones.  Let  us  hope  no  one  who  ever  knew  me  in  the 
old  days  will  be  loafing  about  Rome.  If  so,  I  shall  be 
found  out  to  a  dead  certainty." 

For  it  is  Paul  Farrar,  minus  that  silky  black-brown 


3io   "FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 

beard  and  drooping  mustache  that  became  him  so  well. 
The  change  alters  him  wonderfully.  It  is  the  George 
Valentine  of  two-and-twenty  years  ago  ;  somewhat  big- 
ger, somewhat  browner,  much  more  manly  and  distin- 
guished-looking, but  otherwise  so  much  the  same  bright, 
boyish-looking  George  that  any  one  who  had  ever  known 
him  in  those  old  days — before  he  was  drowned  in  the 
Belle  O'Brien — must  have  recognized  him  now,  despite 
that  melancholy  fact,  almost  at  a  glance.  "  If  I  were 
going  to  the  New  World  now,"  he  thinks,  half  smiling, 
as  they  fly  along,  "  instead  of  the  very  oldest  city  of  the 
old  world,  it  would  never  do.  I  don't  covet  recognition 
at  this  late  day.  No  gcrod  could  come  of  it.  I  am  un- 
forgiven  still,  and  everything  is  disposed  of,  as  it  should 
be,  to  the  little  one.  Pity  she  married  Sir  Vane — never 
will  be  half  good  enough  for  her,  let  him  try  as  he  may. 
But  I  don't  think  he  will  try.  Rene  would  have  suited 
her — pity,  again,  they  could  not  have  hit  it  off.  Not 
that  madame  would  ever  have  consented — her  hopes  and 
ambitions  are  the  same  to-day  as  they  were  when  her 
only  son  disappointed  her,  like  the  headstrong  young 
fool  he  was.  Ah,  well,  these  things  are  written  in  Allah's 
big  book — it  is  all  Kismet  together.  Whom  among  us  is 
stronger  than  his  fate  ?" 

The  train  stops  at  a  station  and  Mr.  Farrar  gets  out 
to  light  a  cigar  and  stretch  his  legs.  A  drizzling  rain  is 
falling,  a  chilly  wind  is  blowing,  he  pulls  down  his  felt 
hat,  pulls  up  his  coat  collar,  and  strides  up  and  down  the 
platform  during  the  few  minutes  of  their  stay.  Doing 
so  he  glances  carelessly  into  the  carriages  as  he  passes. 
One,  a  first-class  compartment,  holds  two  elderly  women, 
a  lady,  evidently,  and  her  maid.  The  lady,  a  grand- 
looking  personage,  of  serene  mien,  and  silvery  hair  and 
face,  rests  against  the  cushions  with  eyes  half  closed. 
The  servant  sits  near  the  window  and  gazes  out.  At 
sight  of  these  two  Mr.  Farrar  receives  such  a  shock  that 
for  a  moment  he  stands  stock-still,  a  petrified  gazer 


THAT    ARE    NOT    STEERED?  311 

His  face  pales  startlingly  under  his  brown  skin,  he  looks 
as  though  he  could  not  believe  his  own  sense  of  sight. 
The  woman  looks  at  him,  sits  up,  looks  again,  with  a 
low,  frightened  ejaculation,  and  glances  at  the  mistress. 
A  second  later,  she  looks  out  again — in  that  second  he  is 
gone 

"  What  is  it,  Tinker  ?"  asks,  wearily,  Madam  Valen- 
tine. 

"  Oh,  madame  !  my  dear  mistress,  I  saw  a  mar,  only 
a  glimpse  of  him,  but  it  made  me  think  of — of " 

"Well?"  pettishly. 

"  Master  George.  It  was  that  like  him.  Dear  heart ! 
what  a  start  it  did  give  me,  to  be  sure." 

"  Nonsense,"  madame  says,  sharply.  "  How  can  you 
be  such  an  old  idiot,  Tinker.  You  should  have  more  re- 
gard for  my  feelings  than  to  speak  that  name  in  that 
abrupt  way.  Does  it  still  rain?"  wearily.  "Tinker,  I 
wonder  where  my  dear  child  is  by  this  time?" 

"  In  better  weather  than,  this,  poor  lamb,  wherever  it 
is,"  responds  Mrs.  Tinker,  with  a  shiver.  "  Lawk  !  my 
lady,  I  feel  chill  to  the  bone.  I  do  hope  now  Anselmer 
will  see  to  the  fires  all  through  the  house.  It  would  be 
the  very  wust  thing  that  ever  wus,  for  you  to  go  into 
damp  rooms  after  such  a  journey  as  this." 

"  Do  you  think  she  looked  happy,  Tinker,  when  we 
left  ?"  pursues  madame,  unheeding  the  weather,  absorbed 
in  thought  of  her  resigned  treasure.  "She  cried,  of 
course,  at  the  parting,  but  do  you  think  she  looked 
happy,  and  as  a  young  bride  should?  I  grow  afraid 
sometimes — afraid " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  to  speak  plain  truth,  Sir  Vane  ain't 
neither  that  young,  nor  that  pleasant  as  he  might  be.  I 
always  thought  him  a  molloncholy  and  sad  gentleman, 
myself.  But  tastes  differ.  Maybe  Miss  Dolores  is  happy." 
Mrs.  Tinker's  face,  as  she  says  it,  is  dismal  beyond  ex- 
pression. "  I'm  sure  I  hope  and  pray  so,  poor  sweet 
young  lamb— no  more  fit  to  be  used  bad  than  a  baby. 


3i2    "FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 

But "  She  breaks  off  as  her  mistress  has  done — un- 
finished sentences  best  express  their  fears.  Both  are 
filled  with  foreboding  and  vague  regret,  now  that  the 
deed  is  done  beyond  all  recall.  Her  darling  is  not 
happy — she  sees  that  at  last.  And  the  fault  is  hers — she 
who  would  give  the  remnant  of  her  old  life  to  make  her 
so.  She  has,  indirectly  at  least,  forced  her  into  a  love- 
less marriage,  with  a  man  double  her  age,  a  man  ill-tem- 
pered and  mercenary,  a  man  no  more  capable  of  valuing 
the  sweetness,  beauty,  youth,  he  has  won,  than  he  is  of 
doing  a  great,  a  generous,  an  unselfish  deed.  Her  child 
wished  to  remain  with  her,  and  she  forced  her  from  her 
— thrustlier  into  the  arms  of  Vane  Valentine.  And  now 
that  remorse,  and  sorrow,  and  fear,  come  upon  her,  it  is 
too  late — for  all  time,  too  late  ! 

The  train  rushes  along  on  its  iron  way  ;  evening  is 
closing,  foggy,  and  windy,  and  wet.  She  dozes  a  little 
as  she  lies  wearily  among  the  stuffy  cushions,  but  she  is 
too  filled  with  unrest  to  sleep.  It  is  three  weeks  now 
since  the  wedding-day,  and  she  and  her  faithful  old 
friend  are  journeying  back  to  Rome,  there  to  spend  the 
winter.  Next  spring  the  newly-wedded  pair  are  to  go  to 
Valentine  ;  in  the  summer  she  is  to  join  them  for  a  pro- 
longed visit.  That  is  the  programme,  if  all  is  well.  But 
all  will  be  well,  be  happy.  The  look  of  pale,  shrinking 
fear  of  him,  with  which  her  darling  clung  to  her,  just  at 
the  parting,  haunts  her — will  haunt  her  night  and  day, 
until  they  meet  again.  Is  she  afraid  of  Vane  Valentine? 

"Oh!  my  dearest,  my  sweetest!"  the  poor  old  lips 
murmur  in  the  darkness,  "if  I  had  you  back — all  my 
own  once  more — no  man  should  take  you  from  me, 
unless  you  went  with  a  glad  and  willing  heart."  And 
then  there  rises  before  her  a  man's  .face — a  dark,  delicate 
head,  a  grave  smile,  deep,  serious  brown  eyes,  a  slender, 
strong  young  figure,  a  broad,  thoughtful  brow,  altogether 
a  face  unlike  Sir  Vane's,  a  fitting  mate,  even  in  beauty* 
for  the  golden-haired  heiress. 


THAT    ARE    NOT    STEERED '."  313 

"  She  loved  him,"  madame  thinks,  with  a  pang  ;  "  and 
he  is  worthy  of  her.  If  I  had  given  her  to  him,  she 
would  have  been  happy.  And  I  might  have  had  her 
near  me  always — always  !  What  will  life  be  like  with- 
out her  ?  Poor  ?  Yes,  he  is  poor  ;  but  he  has  talent ;  he 
will  win  his  way  ;  and  as  she  said  to  me  with  her  pretty,  t 
baby  wisdom — is  money  everything?  My  little  love! 
why  did  I  give  you  to  Vane  Valentine  ?  But  he  will  not 
dare  to  be  unkind  to  her.  No;  the  fortune  is  hers; 
there  is  too  much  at  stake." 

But  this  is  sorry  comfort,  and  her  heart  is  very  heavy, 
as  they  speed  along  through  the  wet,  wild  night,  and  the 
windy  darkness,  toward  the  many  towers,  and  palaces, 
and  bells  of  Rome.  Suddenly — what  is  it  ?  There  is 
a  swaying  of  the  carriages,  a  dull,  tremulous  vibration, 
the  sound  of  many  voices,  of  women's  screams,  a  shock 
that  is  like  earth  and  heaven  striking  together,  and  then 
— nothingness. 

"Clear  the  way  !  let  me  through  !"  cries  out  an  im- 
petuous voice,  and  a  man  strides  between  the  affrighted 
throng,  suddenly  huddled  here  on  the  wide  Campagna. 

Overhead  there  is  the  black,  wind-swept  sky  ;  beneath 
there  is  the  sodden,  rain-swept  grass,  the  wrecked  train, 
women  and  children,  terrified,  hurt,  talking,  sobbing^ 
screaming — confusion  dire  everywhere.  Those  who  are 
safely  out  are  trying  to  extricate  those  who  are  still 
prisoners,  foremost  among  them  this  tall,  sunburned 
man,  who  forces  his  way  to  one  particular  wrecked  car- 
riage, and  wrenches  open  the  door. 

"  Mother  !"  he  cries  ;  "Mrs.  Tinker!  Are  you  here? 
For  God's  sake,  speak  !" 

There  are  groans  ;  they  are  there,  but  past  speaking. 
Mrs.  Tinker  is  not  past  hearing,  however.  Through  all 
the  shock  of  pain  and  fright,  she  hears  and  trembles  at 
that  call.  Help  comes,  they  are  brought  out,  both  hurt, 
Madam  Valentine  quite  insensible.  Mrs.  Tinker  looks 
14 


3i4    "FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 

up  through  the  mists  of  what  she  thinks  death,  and  tries 
to  see  the  face  on  which  the  lamp-light  shines,  the  face 
that  is  bending  over  her  mistress. 

"Bid  him  come,"  she  says,  faintly;  "bid  him  speak 
to  me  again  before  I  die  !  It  was  the  voice  of  my  own 
Master  George !" 

He  is  with  her  in  a  moment,  holding  her  in  his  arms, 
bending  down  with  the  handsome,  tender  face  she  knows 
so  well.  "  My  dear  old  friend  !"  is  what  he  says. 

"  Master  George  !  Master  George  !  my  own  Master 
George  !  Has  the  great  day  come,  then,  and  the  sea 
given  up  its  dead,  that  I  see  and  hear  you  this  night  ?" 

"Dear  old  nurse — no.  I  never  was  drowned,  you 
know.  It  has  been  a  mistake  all  these  years — it  is  George 
Valentine  in  the  flesh.  Do  not  talk  now — lie  still — we 
will  take  care  of  you.  I  must  go  back  to  my  mother/' 

"  My  dear  mistress  !  is  she  much  hurt  ?" 

"Very  much,  I  fear;  she  is  senseless.  Take  this 
stimulant,  and  keep  quiet.  You  are  not  going  to  die — 
do  not  think  it." 

But  Mrs.  Tinker  only  groans  and  shuts  her  eyes.  She 
is  bruised,  and  broken,  and  crushed,  and  hurt,  but  no 
bones  are  broken,  and  her  injuries  are  not  serious.  She 
is  so  stunned  and  bewildered  with  fright  and  pain,  that 
she  can  hardly  wonder  or  rejoice  to  find  her  Master 
George  after  all  these  years  alive. 

The  accident,  after  investigation,  turns  out  to  be  com- 
paratively slight.  A  few  persons  are  hurt  more  or  less, 
all  are  badly  scared.  Madam  Valentine  appears  to  be 
the  only  one  seriously  injured.  That  she  is  seriously 
injured  there  can  be  no  question.  She  lies,  while  they 
travel  slowly  into  Rome,  in  her  son's  arms,  without  signs 
of  life.  They  reach  the  great  city,  and  she  is  driven 
slowly  through  the  streets  to  the  Casa  Valentine,  but  all 
the  while  she  lies  like  one  dead.  Mrs.  Tinker  so  far 
recovered  already  as  to  be  able  to  sit  up,  chafes  her 
hands,  and  cries  and  moans  dully  to  herself,  and  alter- 


THAT    ARE    NOT    STEERED"  315 

nately  watches  Master  George.  "  Grown  such  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man,  God  bless  him  !"  she  th:nks  admir- 
ingly. 

Anselmo,  the  major-domo,  awaits  them ;  the  rooms 
are  warm,  beds  are  aired,  all  is  in  order.  Madame  is 
undressed  and  put  to  bed,  the  best  medical  skill  in  Rome 
is  summoned,  and  when  the  sun  is  two  or  three  hours 
high,  she  opens  her  eyes  and  moans  feebly,  and  struggles 
back  painfully  out  of  that  dim  land  of  torpor,  where  she 
has  lain  so  long.  Struggles  back  to  life,  and  pain,  and 
weariness,  and  a  sense  of  stifling  oppression  that  will  not 
let  her  breathe.  Madame's  life  is  drawing  to  its  close — 
"  it  is  toward  evening,  and  the  day  is  now  far  spent." 
She  will  never  look  upon  her  darling's  face  in  this  world 
again.  Mrs.  Tinker  sits  by  her  side — it  is  on  that  tear- 
wet  face  her  eyes  first  fall.  A  glint  of  sunshine  steals  in 
between  the  closed  jalousies — it  turns  the  rose  silk  cur- 
tains to  flame,  and  bathes  in  a  ruby  glow  the  marble  face 
of  the  figure,  "At  the  Shrine."  Her  eyes  leave  Mrs. 
Tinker,  and  rest  on  that. 

"  My  darling  !"  she  whispers,  "  never  again — never  in 
this  world  again."  For  she  knows  the  truth.  She  is 
quite  calm,  and  a  sort  of  smile  dawns  on  her  lips,  as  she 
looks  at  the  weeping  servant  by  her  side. 

"My  good  old  friend,"  she  says,  "you  will  seethe 
last  of  me,  after  all.  I  used  to  wonder  sometimes,  Tinker, 
which  of  us  would  go  first." 

"My  dear  mistress,  my  dear  mistress!"  the  old  serv- 
ant sobs. 

"  A  hard  mistress,  I  am  afraid,  sometimes — an  impe- 
rious mistress."  She  sighs,  glances  at  the  statue,  looks 
back  wistfully.  "  I  should  like  to  see  that  young  man 
before  I  die,"  she  says,  "  I  liked  him." 

"Mr.  Raynay,  ma'am?  The  young  gentleman  that 
made  that  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  send  for  him.  Tinker,  will  you  ?  Tell  me" — a 
painful  effort — "how  long— how  long  do  these  doctors 


316    "FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 

give  me?  I  see  them  in  consultation  in  the  room 
beyond." 

"Oh!  my  dear  mistress,"  crying  wildly,  "not  long, 
not  long — till  to-morrow,  they  say,"  sobs  choke  Mrs. 
Tinker,  "till  to-morrow,  maybe." 

A  spasm  crosses  the  strong  old  face.  She  shuts  her 
eyes,  and  lies  still.  Then  she  opens  them  again  with  the 
same  earnest,  wistful  gaze.  "Tinker,  it  is  strange,  but 
just  at  that  time,  when  the  crash  and  the  darkness  came, 
I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice,  and  it  called  me — it  said  mother! 
It  was  the  voice  of  my  son,  Tinker — my  dear  dead  son." 

Mrs.  Tinker  is  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  with 
clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes.  "  Not  dead,  mistress  ! 
Oh,  praise  and  thanks  be.  Not  dead — not  dead  !  Liv- 
ing all  this  time,  and  with  us  now.  It  was  his  voice  you 
heard  call — his  own  dear  living  voice.  Mistress  !  mis- 
tress !"  with  a  scream  of  affright,  "  are  you  dying?  Have 
I  killed  you?" 

She  has  fallen  back  among  the  pillows,  so  white,  so 
death-like,  that  Mrs.  Tinker  starts  from  her  knees  with 
that  ringing  shriek.  The  doctors  fly  to  the  bedside. 
It  is  not  death,  but  a  death-like  swoon. 

"  I  told  her,  Master  George,  I  told  her,  and  the  shock 
killed  her  a'most.  Oh !  do'ee  go  away,  before  she 
comes  to  again.  The  sight  of  you  will  kill  her  outright 
for  sure." 

"  But  George  does  not  go.  His  mother's  eyes  open 
at  the  moment,  and  rest  on  his  face — rest  in  long,  solemn, 
silent  wonder.  "  Mother,"  he  says,  gently,  "  dearest 
mother,  it  is  I — George.  Do  you  not  know  me? 
Mother!" 

"My  son."  She  lifts  one  faint  hand  by  a  great  effort, 
and  lays  it  in  his  hand.  She  lies  and  looks  at  him  with 
wide,  dilating  eyes,  that  have  in  them  as  yet  only  solemn, 
fearful  wonder — no  joy. 

"  Dear  mother,"  he  kisses  the  other  hand  lying  on 
the  quilt,  "  are  you  not  a  little  giad.  I  love  you,  mother. 


THAT    ARE    NOT    STEERED  r  317 

I  have  wanted  to  come  back  all  these  years,  but  I  was 
afraid — I  was  afraid  I  was  not  forgiven.  Dearest  mother, 
say  you  forgive  me  now  !" 

"His  eyes,  his  voice,  his  words.  It  is  my  George — • 
my  George — my  George  !" 

"You  are  glad  then,  mother?  You  will  say  it,  will 
you  not  ?  If  you  only  knew  how  I  have  longed  all  these 
years  for  the  words  '  I  forgive  you.'  Let  me  hear  you 
say  them  now." 

"  Forgive  you  !"  she  repeats.  "  Oh  !  my  God,  it  is  I 
who  must  be  forgiven.  I  have  been  the  hardest  mother 
the  world  ever  saw.  Forgive  you  !  My  best  beloved,  I 
forgave  you  long  ago.  I  forgive  with  all  my  heart. 
Oh  !  to  think  of  it,  to  think  of  it !  a  wanderer  and  an 
exile  all  these  years,  and  all  the  while,  my  own  son,  my 
heart  has  been  breaking  for  the  sight  of  your  face.  If 
it  is  death  that  has  restored  you  to  me,  then  death  is 
better  than  life.  My  son  !  my  son  !  kiss  me,  and  say  you 
forgive  me  !"  He  does  as  she  bids  him,  and  his  tears  fall 
on  her  face.  "I  can  die  now,"  she  says ;  "tell  them  all 
to  go,  while  we  bless  God.  '  For  this  my  son  was  dead 
and  is  alive  again,  was  lost  and  is  found.' " 

It  is  noontide  of  another  day.  They  are  again  to- 
gether, there  in  that  darkened  room.  The  rose  light 
floods  the  pure,  passionless,  marble  face  of  Dolores.  The 
dying  woman  so  lies,  propped  up  with  pillows,  that  she 
may  see  it  to  the  end.  For  even  the  son  who  sits  by  her 
side  cannot  drive  out  of  her  heart  her  other  darling. 

"  And  then  it  is  only  loving  you  in  another  way,  for 
she  is  yours,"  she  says.  "  I  love  her  for  your  sake  as 
well  as  for  her  own,  my  George." 

He  says  nothing.  His  brows  contract  a  little — there 
is  something  he  would  like  to  say,  but  the  end  draws 
very  near  now,  she  is  fitted  for  no  new  shocks.  And  she 
loves  the  child.  No,  he  will  not  speak. 

"That  reminds  me,"  she  says,  faintly,  "you  are  the 
baronet,  not  Vane.  I  did  not  think  of  that  before." 


318    "FORTUNE  BRINGS  IN  SOME  BOATS 

"Do  not  think  of  it  now.  What  does  it  matter.  Let 
it  go." 

"It  does  matter.  It  shall  not  go.  Right  is  right," 
some  of  her  old  imperious  command  flashes  in  her  dim 
eyes,  rings  in  her  feeble  voice.  "  You  are  the  baronet, 
not  he.  You  must  claim  your  right,  George.  Promise 
me  you  will  when  I  am  gone." 

"Mother,  is  it  worth  while " 

"  It  is  worth  while — a  thousand  times  worth  while. 
Right  is  right,  I  say.  He  is  a  just  man  with  all  his 
faults  ;  he  will  acknowledge  your  superior  right.  He 
has  no  shadow  of  claim  on  the  title  while  you  live.  And 
the  fortune  is  yours  too — your  daughter  will  resign  it. 
It  must  be  so,  George — promise  me." 

"  Mother " 

"  Promise  me,  if  I  am  to  die  content.  Through  my 
fault,  through  my  cruelty,  you  have  lost  both  title  and 
fortune.  Let  me  do  what  I  can  to  repair  it.  Before 
those  doctors  in  the  next  room,  before  my  lawyer,  my 
servants,  I  have  already  acknowledged  you  ;  promise  me 
you  will  make  the  world  acknowledge  you,  that  you  will 
resume  your  rightful  name  and  rank,  your  place  in  the 
world.  Promise  me  before  I  die.  You  cannot  refuse 
the  last  request  of  a  dying  mother." 

No — he  cannot,  but  he  looks  infinitely  disturbed  as 
he  reluctantly  gives  the  pledge.  "  I  promise — to  let  Do- 
lores know,"  is  what  he  slowly  says. 

"  You  hear  this  ?"  she  asks,  appealing  in  terrible  ear- 
nestness to  the  two  silent  witnesses  of  the  scene — Mrs. 
Tinker,  kneeling  beside  her,  Rene  Macdonald,  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "  You  are  listening,  Monsieur 
Rene  ?  You  will  witness  for  me  that  he  keeps  his 
pledge  ?  He  must  assert  his  rights.  Dolores  is  your 
friend — I  commission  you  to  tell  her  this.  She  will  do 
what  is  right  I  know — it  is  a  heart  of  gold.  And  it  is 
her  own  father.  How  glad  the  child  will  be.  You  will 
love  her  Very  much,  George,  and  care  for  her  ?  Do  not 


THAT    ARE    NOT    STEERED."  3:9 

let  her  husband  be  unkind  to  her.  He  is  a  just  man — 
Vane — but  hard,  and  a  little  grim.  When  I  am  gone, 
Monsieur  Rene,  go  to  England,  and  tell  the  little  one. 
She  will  gladly  give  up  a  fortune  and  a  title  for  her 
father's  sake." 

"My  dear  mother,  you  do  wrong  to  agitate  yourseJf 
in  this  way.  Do  not  talk.  Rene  is  going  now.  Will 
you  say  good-by  to  him,  and  try  to  sleep  ?" 

"  To  sleep,  to  sleep,"  she  murmurs,  heavily.  "  I  shall 
sleep  soundly  soon,  my  son — soon,  soon.  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you.  Do  not  go  away,  stay  here  with  me  until  the 
end." 

"  I  am  not  going,  mother — it  is  Rene." 

"  Addio,  signore,"  she  says,  with  a  wan  smile,  "  I  like 
you,  I  always  liked  you.  And  you  will  tell  my  little 
one  when  I  arn  gone.  She  liked  you,  too — she  liked  you 
best.  I  know  it  now.  Do  not  tell  Sir  Vane ;  he  would 
not  like  it.  Yes,  she  liked  you  best." 

"  Her  mind  is  wandering,"  her  son  says,  hurriedly,  but 
he  glances  questionly  at  Rene  as  he  says  it.  In  the  dim 
gray-green  light  of  the  death-room,  he  sees  the  profound 
pallor  of  the  dark  face.  So,  poor  Rene  ! 

They  watch  by  the  bedside  during  the  long,  slow 
hours  of  the  afternoon.  She  rambles  sometimes,  and 
murmurs  broken  sentences — generally,  though,  her  mind 
is  quite  calm.  George  sits  by  her  side,  holding  her 
hand,  administering  stimulants  and  medicines,  watching 
every  breath.  And  so  death  finds  her  when  it  comes, 
quite  peacefully  and  painlessly,  her  last  smile,  her  last 
look,  her  last  word  for  him.  When  Ave  Maria  rings  out 
in  the  pearly  haze  of  twilight,  Katherioe  Valentine  lies 
dead. 


320  "IN    HIS    DREAMS." 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
"IN  HIS  DREAMS  HE  SHALL  SEE  THEE  AND  ACHE.' 


HE  studio,  the  late  afternoon  lights  filling 
gayly  its  high  chill  length.  The  sculptor 
stands  busy,  his  fingers  deep  in  molding  wet 
clay,  two  swinging  bronze  lamps  sparkling 
like  fire-flies  in  the  half  light.  The  autumn  day  has 
been  damp  and  dark,  the  sky  out  there,  seen  between  the 
wet  vines,  is  the  color  of  drab  paper,  a  fog  that  London 
could  not  surpass  shrouds  the  Eternal  City.  Looking 
rather  moodily  out  at  it,  sits  George  Valentine,  en- 
sconced in  a  great  carved  and  gilded  chair,  and  encir- 
cling himself  with  a  second  fog  of  his  own  making — 
the  smoke  of  his  cigar.  Both  are  silent,  the  younger 
absorbed  in  his  clay  cast,  the  elder  in  his  thoughts.  A 
week  has  passed  since  the  funeral.  Presently  George 
Valentine  leaves  off  staring  at  the  yellow  fog,  and  turns 
his  attention  to  the  artist,  still  busily  absorbed  in  model- 
ing his  wet  clay,  and  stares  at  him. 

"  What  an  odd  fellow  you  are,  Rene  !"  is  what  he  says. 

Rene  looks  up.  It  strikes  Mr.  Valentine,  as  it  lias 
not  struck  him  hitherto,  that  his  young  friend  is  alto- 
gether too  worn  and  hollow-eyed  for  the  number  of  his 
years,  and  that  he  has  grown  more  taciturn  than  he  ever 
used  to  be.  "What  is  it  you  say?"  Rene  asks. 

"I  say  you  are  a  queer  fellow.  Why,  look  here. 
For  the  past  sixteen  years  or  more  you  have  known  me 
as  Paul  Farrar.  All  in  a  moment,  as  it  must  seem  to 
you,  I  start  up,  like  the  hero  of  a  melodrama,  not  myself 
at  all,  but  somebody  else ;  not  Paul  Farrar,  but  the  long- 
lost  son  of  a  lady  you  very  well  know — a  Tichborne 
Claimant  No.  2.  You  are  summoned  suddenly  to  a 
death-bed  ;  you  meet  me  there,  under  another  name  and 


"IN    If  IS    DREAMS."  321 

identity,  and  you  accept  the  metamorphosis  without 
question  or  comment.  Over  two  weeks  have  gone  since 
then,  we  have  met  daily,  still  not  a  word.  It  may  be 
delicacy  of  feeling,  it  may  be  indifference,  it  may  be 
good  breeding — I  don't  know  what  name  you  give  it,  but 
it  is  queer,  to  say  the  least." 

"  It  is  good  breeding/'  says  Rene,  laughing.  "  I  have 
always  been  taught  that  it  is  impolite  to  ask  questions. 
Besides,  man  ami,  how  could  I  intrude  on  your  secrets — 
gainful  recollections,  perhaps?  You  knew  me;  when 
you  saw  fit,  you  would  tell  me.  Meantime " 

"Meantime,  absorbed  in  secrets  of  your  own,  you 
don't  burn  with  curiosity  to  hear  those  of  other  men. 
You  look  hipped,  my  lad,  as  if  fate  had  given  you  a 
facer  of  late.  You  work  too  hard,  and  you  don't  eat 
enough.  I've  watched  you.  No  wonder  you  grow  as 
thin  as  a  shadow.  No  touch  of  Roman  fever,  I  trust, 
my  boy  ?" 

"  Well — who  knows  ?  There  are  so  many  kinds  of 
Roman  fever.  Yes,"  Rene  says,  half  jestingly,  half  seri- 
ously ;  "  I  suppose  I  may  call  it  that.  I  certainly  caught 
it  here  in  Rome.  Never  mind  me,"  impatiently  ;  "I  will 
do  well  enough.  I  am  a  tough  fellow,  lean  though  I  be. 
I'll  pull  through  all  right.  Tell  me  of  yourself,  ires  cher. 
You  give  me  credit  for  less  interest  in  you  than  I  pos- 
sess, if  you  do  not  see  I  am  full  of  curiosity — though 
that  is  not  the  word  either — to  hear  your  story.  It  should 
be  a  romantic  one.  As  to  being  surprised — I  don't 
know.  You  always  seemed  a  man  a  little  out  of  the 
ordinary  to  me — a  man  with  a  history.  No  ;  I  was  not 
much  surprised  to  find  you  were  somebody  besides  my 
father's  friend,  M.  Paul  Farrar." 

George  Valentine  has  gone  back  to  his  scrutiny  of 
the  weather  ;  he  watches  it  through  the  blurred  panes 
with  dreamy,  retrospective  eyes.  There  is  silence ;  he 
smokes,  Rene  plunges  his  fingers  into  the  soft  clay, 
and  an  angel's  face  breaks  through.  The  elder  man's 
14* 


322  "IN    HIS    DREAMS." 

thoughts  are  drifting  backward  to  that  other  life,  that 
seems  now  like  a  life  lived  in  a  dream. 

"  What  a  little  forever  it  is  to  look  back  upon  !  "  he 
says,  "and  yet  like  yesterday,  too.  That  old  time  at 
Toronto,  when  I  led  the  luxurious,  idle  life  of  a  youth- 
ful prince,  as  spoiled,  as  flattered,  as  headstrong,  as  self- 
indulgent  as  any  prince — how  it  comes  back  as  I  sit 
here,  and  I  am  no  longer  the  George  Valentine  of  forty 
years — battered,  world-worn,  gray — but  the  lad  George, 
who  rode  and  danced,  and  dreamed,  and  thought  life  a 
perpetual  boy's  holiday,  and  who  fell  in  love  at  nineteen 
with  a  trapeziste,  and  ran  away  with  her  and  married 
her." 

Half  to  himself,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  muses  aloud, 
half  to  Rene,  who  listens  and  works  in  sympathetic  si- 
lence, he  tells  the  story — the  story  of  the  one  brief  love 
idyl  of  his  life.  "  I  came  back  to  my  senses  more  quick- 
ly than  I  lost  them,"  he  says,  > "  as  I  suppose  most 
people  do  who  make  unequal  marriages.  I  had  simply 
made  utter  wreck  and  ruin  of  my  life.  She  is  dead,  poor 
soul,  this  many  a  day — she  was  Snowball's  mother.  I 
will  say  nothing  about  her  that  I  can  leave  unsaid. 
Only — when  I  left  her,  after  ten  months  of  marriage — 
you  may  believe  me  when  I  say  I  was  justified  in  doing 
it.  She  was  not  in  love  with  me.  I  found  that  out  soon 
enough ;  she  was  not  of  thd  women  who  fall  in  love. 
She  was  so  utterly  wrapped  up  in  herself,  she  had  no 
room  in  her  poor  little  starved  heart  for  any  other  human 
creature.  Perhaps  she  may  have  been  fond  of  her  child, 
but  I  doubt  it." 

"You  left  her  after  ten  months,"  Rene  repeats.  Some 
thing  in  the  statement  seems  to  fit  badly  with  someothei 
fact  in  his  mind.  He  regards  his  friend  with  a  puzzled 
look. 

"  Just  ten  months,  my  young  friend — we  parted  thus 
for  our  mutual  benefit.  I  never  siw  her  again  until  I 


"IN    HIS    DREAMS."  323 

saw  her  fall  from  the  slack- rope  in  Badger's  circus,  one 
day  some  six  years  after." 

"  Six  years  after,"  again  repeats  Rene,  the  puzzled 
look  deepening  in  his  face.  "  And  Snowball  was  but 
three  years  old  then  !  " 

"  Precisely.     It's  a  deuce  of  a  business,     Rene " 

"Well?" 

"  Snowball  is  not  my  daughter." 

A  stunned  pause.  And  yet — Rene  could  not  tell  you 
why — the  shock  of  astonishment  is  not  so  great  as  it 
ought  to  be.  "  I  thought  you  would  say  that,"  he  says, 
in  a  hushed  tone.  "  And  your  mother — we  all,  she  her- 
self, her  husband — have  been  deceived." 

"  It's  a  bad  business,  old  fellow,  I  don't  deny,  and  all 
owing  to  the  false  report  of  my  death.  By  the  merest 
accident — a  slip  on  the  ice,  a  sprained  ankle — I  did  not 
sail  in  the  fatal  Belle  O'Brien.  Another  man  took  my 
place — a  poorer  devil  even  than  myself — so  poor  that  to 
keep  him  from  freezing  to  death  that  bitter  winter 
weather  I  shared  my  scanty  wardrobe  with  him.  He, 
George  Valentine,  as  his  clothes  led  all  to  think,  per- 
ished that  stormy  night,  and  the  Paul  Farrar  who  lived, 
and  had  a  hard  fight  with  fortune  for  many  a  year,  was  a 
castaway  about  whom  no  one  was  likely  to  be  concerned. 
I  did  not  know  I  was  forgiven.  I  only  knew  another 
heir  had  been  found  for  the  great  Valentine  fortune.  I 
did  not  know  Mimi,  my  wife,  had  married  again,  in  good 
faith  enough,  Tom  Randal.  I  was  engaged  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  fight  for  bread  in  those  early  d;iys.  When  I  did 
know,  it  was  too  late.  I  came  to  Clangville,  honestly 
resolute  to  see  my  mother,  and  obtain  her  pardon.  Time 
might  have  softened  her,  I  thought,  and  condoned  my 
offense.  It  was  an  extraordinary  thing  that  Mimi,  my  wife 
\  —Tom  Randal's  widow,  if  you  like — should  be  there  at 
the  same  time.  There  she  was,  with  little  Snowball,  and 
I  soon  discovered,  from  Vane  Valentine,  that  he  knew  all 
about  her  (except  the  fact  of  her  second  marriage  ;  tJiat 


324  *  IN    HIS    DREAMS? 

very  few  people  ever  knew)  ;  that  she  hid  visited  my 
mother,  and  threatened  to  make  public  her  marriage  with 
me,  unless  bought  off.  Vane  Valentine  only  knew  me 
as  Paul  Farrar,  of  course.  I  had  met  him  at  Fayal  some 
time  before.  A  new  thought  struck  me.  Without  pre- 
senting myself  in  person  I  could  judge  of  my  mother's 
feeling  toward  me  by  her  conduct  toward  the  child  sup- 
posed to  be  mine.  If,  after  Mimi's  tragical  fate,  she 
showed  pity  for  the  child,  I  would  have  come  forward  at 
once,  and  revealed  myself.  I  longed  for  her  forgiveness, 
Rene  ;  I  longed  to  be  back  in  the  world  of  living  men, 
from  which  for  years  I  had  seemed  to  be  thrust  out ;  I 
longed  to  be  once  more  my  mother's  son.  One  kindly, 
womanly  act  toward  the.  child — I  would  have  asked  no 
more — I  would  have  come  forward,  pleaded  for  pardon, 
and  striven  in  the  future  to  repair  the  past.  But  that  act 
never  came.  The  child — unseen,  uncared  for,  as  though 
she  were  a  dog  or  a  pet  bird  of  the  dead  woman's — was 
banished,  and  given  over  to  the  hands  of  strangers.  She 
thought  her  her  grandchild,  and  still  banishered  her  un- 
seen. Perhaps  it  was  the  doing  of  Vane  Valentine — - 
Heaven  knows  !  It  sufficed  to  kill  my  last  hope  forever. 
The  heart  that  could  be  so  hard  to  the  child  was  not 
likely  to  soften  to  the  father. 

"  I  accepted  the  decision  in  silence  and  went  my  way, 
taking  the  little  one  with  me.  Of  course  I  fell  in  love 
with  the  child  at  sight — every  one  did  that.  She  was  the 
most  bewitching  baby  in  the  world  ;  but  you  remember 
her,  no  doubt.  You  know  my  life  since  then,  the  life 
of  a  wanderer  always.  But  for  the  accident  that  night 
on  which  we  met  there  never  would  have  been  either 
reconciliation  or  forgiveness.  I  had  made  up  my  mind, 
you  see,  after  the  episode  of  Snowball,  that  there  was  no 
hope  for  me.  But  it  has  been  decreed  otherwise.  My  poor 
mother  !  hers  was  a  lonely  life.  She  wrapped  herself  in 
silence  and  pride,  and  shut  out  the  world.  Can  a  mother 
forget  her  child  ?  On  her  death-bed  she  told  me  I  had 


"IN    HIS    DREAM S?  325 

been  forgiven  always.  It  will  comfort  me  when  I  am 
on  mine  to  remember  that." 

Rene  stands  silent.  After  a  pause  George  Valentine 
goes  on  :  "  Perhaps  there,  just  at  the  last,  I  should  have 
told  my  mother  the  truth.  I  think  I  would,  but  that  I 
knew  the  explanation  would  be  too  great  a  shock  for  her 
to  bear.  And  she  loved  the  girl  so  dearly,  as  I  do,  as  you, 
as  we  all  do.  Dear  little  Snowball  !  what  does  it  matter  ? 
If  she  were  my  daughter  in  reality  I  could  never  be  fonder 
of  her  than  I  am." 

"It  matters  a  great  deal,"  Rene  answers,  "and  so 
Vane  Valentine  will  think,  and  say,  when  he  hears  it. 
It  robs  him  at  a  word  of  title  and  fortune.  How  do  you 
think  he  will  take  that  ?" 

"  He  had  better  take  it  quietly,  or  it  maybe  worse  for 
him.  If  he  is  harsh  to  that  child  he  shall  rue  it.  And 
you,  too,  my  friend — you  have  become  involved  in  this 
family  tangle.  It  will  devolve  upon  you,  I  suppose,  as 
you  have  already  promised,  to  go  and  tell  Snowball.  I 
wish — I  wish  my  mother  had  not  insisted  upon  that. 
The  expos^  if  it  must  come,  will  be  the  deuce  and  all  to 
stand." 

"  Right  is  right,"  says  Rene. 

"  To  be  sure  ;  but  if  a  man  prefers  the  wrong  ?  Sup- 
posing he  is  the  only  one  to  suffer  ?  It  is  rather  a  nui- 
sance, isn't  it,  to  be  forced  into  a  court  of  appeal,  whether 
or  no  ?  Look  here,  Rene,  Vane  Valentine  will  not  resign 
what  he  has  waited  for  so  long,  gotten  so  hardly,  without 
fighting  it  out  to  the  bitter  end.  Do  you  know  what  that 
means  for  me  ?  It  means  taking  the  whole  world  into 
my  confidence — telling  it  what  a  confounded  ass  I  have 
been,  all  my  life, — seeing  my  name,  and  hers,  and  my 
mother's  in  glaring  capitals  in  every  English  and  Amer- 
ican newspaper  I  pick  up.  Do  you  know  what  it  meajis 
for  Snowball  ?  The  exposure  of  her  birth,  as  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  lawless  circus  woman — an  heiress  under  false 
pretenses — a  wife  whom  Vane  Valentine  no  more  would 


326  "IN    HIS    DREAMS? 

have  married,  knowing  the  truth  than Good 

Heaven  !  Rene,  don't  you  see  the  thing  is  impossible  ?" 

Rene  stands  silent.  Right  is  right — yes,  but  to  hold 
fast  to  the  right  through  all  things,  simply  because  it  it 
light,  sometimes  requires  a  courage  superhuman. 

"  It  will  break  her  heart,  it  will  brand  her  with 
infamy,  it  will  blight  her  life,  it  will  compel  her  to  face 
an  exposure,  for  which  a  crown  and  a  kingdom  would 
not  repay.  No,  no,  Rene  ;  go  over  and  tell  her,  if  you 
like,  since  the  promise  was  extorted  on  a  death-bed,  but 
there  we  will  stop.  Sir  Vane  shall  be  Sir  Vane  to  the 
end.  It  shall  be  no  new  Orton  and  Tichborne  affair, 
this,  with  the  same  ultimate  ending,  no  doubt.  It  is  a 
thousand  pities  it  must  be  told  at  all — it  will  make  the 
child  miserable  all  her  life.  Rene,  need  it  be  told  ?" 

"Undoubtedly,  since  I  have  promised.  Better  be 
miserable,  knowing  the  truth,  than  happy  in  a  fool's 
paradise  of  ignorance." 

"A  fool's  paradise  !  Ah  !  poor  little  Snowball  !  I 
doubt  the  paradise,  even  a  fool's,  with  Vane  Valentine. 
If  he  is  unkind  to  her — then,  Rene,  I  will  face  all  things, 
and  have  it  out  with  him.  Let  him  look  to  it,  if  he  is 
harsh  with  her.  Come  what  may,  I  shall  not  spare 
him." 

Still  Rene  is  silent.  He  stands  with  folded  arms 
and  knitted  brows,  staring  moodily  out  at  the  pale  flood 
of  moon-rays  silvering  the  stone  court.  George  Valen- 
tine has  risen,  too,  and  is  pacing  up  and  down. 

"  You  will  see  for  yourself,"  he  says,  "  when  you  go 
there.  There  need  be  no  haste  ;  they  do  not  return  to 
England,  I  believe,  until  spring.  Go  over  then,  and  see, 
and  tell  her.  For  myself,  I  shall  remain  in  Rome  this 
winter.  One  look  at  her  will  tell  you  more  than  a  score 
of  letters,  whether  or  no  she  is  happy.  I  seem  to  have  a 
sort  of  presentiment  about  it,  that  she  is  not — that  she 
never  will  be.  I  distrust  that  fellow — I  always  have. 
He  has  the  soul  of  a  miser,  grasping,  sordid,  cruel  ;  and 


"IN    HIS    D REAMS?  377 

he  was  in  love  with  another  woman,  a  cousin.  Snowball 
never  cared  for  him,  I  feel  sure.  How  could  she  ? — old, 
cold,  self-centered,  unfitted  for  her  in  every  way.  Dear 
little  Snowball  !  so  fresh,  so  bright,  so  joyous — how 
soon  he  will  change  all  that  !  It  is  a  pity,  a  thousand 
pities,  man  ami,  that  you " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  hush  !"  Rene  Macdonald  cries 
out,  fiercely.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  made  of  this?"  strik- 
ing passionately  the  marble  against  which  he  stands — 
"that  I  can  listen  to  you?  Do  you  think  there  is  ever 
an  hour,  sleeping  or  waking,  in  which  she  is  absent  from 
me  ?  I  try  to  forget  sometimes — I  force  myself  to  forget, 
lest  in  much  thinking  of  what  might  have  been  but  for 
this  fortune  and  that  man,  I  should  go  mad." 

George  Valentine  lays  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
stands  beside  him — mute.  Something  of  this  he  has  sus- 
pected. How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  But  he  speaks  no 
word.  The  voice  that  breaks  the  silence  is  the  voice  of 
a  girl  singing,  to  a  piano,  in  the  apartment  above.  An 
English  family  have  that  second  floor.  The  voice  of  the 
girl,  singing  an  English  song,  comes  to  them  though  the 
open  windows,  through  the  slumbering  sweetness  of  the 
night. 

"  In  the  daytime  thy  voice  shall  go  through  him, 

In  his  dreams  he  shall  see  thee,  and  ache, 
Thou  shalt  kindle  by  night,  and  subdue  him 
Asleep  or  awake." 

"If  you  would  rather  not  go,"  George  Valentine 
says,  at  last,  "it  may  be  too  hard  for  you " 

"I  will  go,"  Rene  answers,  between  his  teeth;  "I 
must  see  for  myself.  If  he  makes  her  happy — well,  I 
shall  try  and  be  thankful,  and  see  her  no  more.  If  he  is 
what  you  think  him — what  I  think  him — let  him  look  to 
it  !  Say  no  more,  tres  cher,  there  are  some  hurts  that 
simply  will  not  bear  handling  ;  this  is  one  of  them." 


MY    LADY     VALENTINE. 


PART    IV. 


"  Marriage  \s  a  desperate  thing.  The  frogs  in  ./Esop  were  extremely  wise ; 
they  had  a  great  mind  to  some  water,  but  they  would  not  leap  into  a  well,  because 
they  cvuld  not  get  out  again." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 
MY  LADY  VALENTINE. 


SPRING  evening — April  stars  beginning  to 
pierce  through  the  blue  one  by  one ;  a  silvery 
haze  over  yonder  above  the  firs,  showing 
where  the  moon  means  to  rise  presently. 
An  air  like  velvet,  a  soft  southerly  breeze  stirring  in  the 
elms  and  chestnuts,  and  bending  to  kiss  the  sweet  hidden 
violets  and  anemones  as  it  flutters  by.  Down  in  a  thorn- 
bush  near  the  keeper's  gate  a  nightingale  is  singing, 
and  everything  else  that  flies  and  twitters,  holds  its 
breath  to  hear.  So,  too,  does  the  stout,  unromantic- 
looking  woman,  who  leans  across  the  gate,  watching 
and  waiting  and  rather  anxious,  but  charmed  as  well  by 
the  wonderful  flow  of  bird-music. 

Anxiety,  however,  soon  gets  the  better  ^f  her  again, 
and  she  peers  down  the  long  white  strip  of  wood,  bend- 
ing her  ear  to  catch  the  sound  she  listens  for.  But  only 
the  nightingale's  song  breaks  the  sylvan  stillness  of  the 
sweet  spring  evening. 

"Late  again,"  she  says  to  herself;  "I  guessed  she 


MY    LADY     VALENTINE.  329 

would  be.  And  Miss  Valentine  she's  such  a  one  to  nag 
if  the  poor  dear  is  five  minutes  past  the  time.  I  wish 
the  cross  old  cat  was  furder — I  do." 

She  glances  apprehensively  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
says  it,  not  quite  sure  that  Miss  Dorothy  Valentine  may 
not  pounce  upon  her,  as  rapidly  and  soundlessly  as  the 
feline  to  which  she  has  compared  her.  But  she  and 
Philomel  seem  to  have  it  all  to  themselves.  The  lofty 
trees  and  broad  acres  of  the  park  spread  around  her  ; 
down  here  it  is  a  lonely  spot  where  even  Miss  Valentine, 
who  is  omnipresent,  never  comes.  Over  yonder  peep 
the  gables  of  the  house,  Manor  Valentine,  sparkling  all 
along  its  somber  brick  front,  with  many  lights. 

It  is  an  ugly,  old-fashioned  mansion  of  Queen 
Anne's  time — once  red,  of  a  dull,  warmish-brown  tint 
now,  that  contrasts  very  well  with  the  green  of  the  ivy 
that  overruns  most  of  it,  and  softens  and  tones  down 
the  gaunt  grimness  of  its  stiff  and  angular  outlines.  It 
has  pointed  gables,  and  great  stacks  of  chimneys,  arid 
quaintly-timbered  porches — in  summer  time,  very  bowers 
of  wild-rose  and  honeysuckle.  It  has  old-fashioned, 
prim  Dutch  gardens,  kept  at  present  with  care,  but  left 
to  run  riot  in  the  days  of  the  late  baronet,  and  all  the 
old-fashioned,  sweet-smelling  flowers  that  ever  bloomed, 
grow  in  beauty  side  by  side.  And  here  in  the  park  are 
magnificent  copper  beeches,  great  green  elms,  branching 
oaks,  and  a  world  of  fern  and  bracken  waving  below. 

This  primeval  forest  of  untouched  timber  is  the  de- 
light of  Sir  Vane  Valentine's  life.  Poor  as  Sir  Rupert 
ever  was,  all  these  wonderful  woods  of  Valentine  were 
undesecrated  by  the  axe.  He  held  these  family  Dryads 
sacred,  and  left  them  in  their  lofty  beauty  unfelled.  Fallen 
from  its  once  high  estate  no  doubt  it  is,  but  even  in  these 
latter  days  of  decadence,  Manor  Valentine  is  a  heritage 
to  be  proud  of.  Its  present  lord  is  proud  of  it — of  every 
tradition  of  the  old  house,  of  every  black  and  grim  family 
portrait,  of  every  tree  in  the  stately  demesne,  of  every 


330  MY    LADY     VALENTINE. 

queer,  unfashionable  flower  in  the  Queen  Anne  gardens. 
These  quaint  gardens  shall  grow  and  flourish  undis- 
turbed ;  he  has  decreed  it.  There  may  be  orchid  houses, 
and  an  acre  under  glass,  and  ferneries  to  the  heart's  con- 
tent of  his  sister  and  cousin,  b'ut  all  else  shall  remain, 
a  standing  memorial  of  by-gone  days,  and  dead  and 
buried  dames.  And  here  in  the  park,  leaning  over  the 
gate,  looking  at  the  moonrise  and  listening  to  the  night- 
ingale, stands  faithful  Jemima  Ann  waiting  for  her  sov- 
ereign lady  to  come  home.  Something  of  the  fidelity  of 
a  dog,  of  the  wistfulness  of  a  dog's  eyes,  looks  out  of  hers 
as  she  stands,  with  her  face  ever  expectantly  turned  one 
way  ;  and  all  the  loyalty,  all  the  love  without  question 
and  without  stint,  of  a  dog,  is  there. 

"  I  wish  she  would  come,"  she  keeps  whispering  to 
herself.  "  Miss  Valentine  will  jaw,  and  Sir  Vane  he'll 
scowl  blacker'n  midnight,  and  that  there  dratted  Miss 
Routh,  she'll  sneer  and  say,  'Bogged  again?  Ah,  I 
thought  so !'  and  laugh  that  nasty,  aggravatin'  little 
laugh  o'  her'n.  An'  scoldin',  an'  scowlin',  an'  sneerin'  is 
what  my  precious  pet  never  was  used  to  before  she  went 
and  throwed  herself  away — worse  luck  ! — on  sichas  him." 
Again  she  glances  back  apprehensively  over  her  shoulder. 
Miss  Valentine  has  an  uncomfortable  way  of  pouncing 
upon  her  victims  at  short  range,  at  inopportune  moments, 
and  in  the  most  unlikely  places.  Jemima  Ann  would 
not  be  surprised  to  see  her  glide,  ghost-like,  out  from 
among  the  copper  beeches  down  there,  all  grim  and 
wrathful,  and  primed  with  rating  to  the  muzzle.  An  aus- 
tere virgin  is  Mistress  Dorothy  Valentine,  even  with  her 
lamp  "well  trimmed  and  burning,"  and  the  household 
here  at  the  Manor  is  ruled  with  a  vestal  rod  of  iron. 

A  stable  clock,  high  up  in  a  breezy  turret  among  the 
trees,  strikes  nine.  But  it  is  not  dark.  A  misty  twilight, 
through  which  the  moon,  like  a  silver  ship,  sails,  vails  the 
green  world.  Jemima  Ann,  however,  hears,  and  anxiety 
turns  to  agony.  "  I  wish — I  wish  she  would  come,"  she 


MY    LADY     VALENTINE.  331 

cries  out,  in  such  vehemence  of  desire,  that  the  wish  seems 
to  bring  about  its  own  fulfillment.  Afar  off,  comes  the 
rapid  tread  of  horses'  hoofs  down  the  high  road,  and  in 
a  moment,  dashing  up  the  bridle  path,  the  hors-jt  and 
rider  she  looks  forcomes.  She  has  just  time  to  dart  back 
when  both  horse  and  rider  fly  over  the  low  gate,  then 
with  a  laugh  the  big  black  horse  is  pulled  down  on  his 
hind  legs,  there  is  a  flourish  in  space  of  two  iron  front 
hoofs,  then  the  rider,  still  laughing,  leans  over  to  where, 
under  the  trees.  Jemima  Ann  has  sought  sanctuary. 

"  It  is  you,  Jemima  Ann,"  she  says. 

"  Me,  Miss  Snowball,"  answers  a  panting  voice,  "  it's 
me.  I  thought  you'd  never  come.  I  wish  you  would 
not  jump  over  gates,  Miss  Snowball.  You'll  kill  yourself 
yet.  I  declare,  it  gives  me  such  a  turn  every  time  you  do 
it " 

The  young  lady  laughs  again,  springs  lightly  down, 
and  with  the  bridle  over  her  arm,  gathers  up  her  long 
riding-habit  with  the  other  hand.  "  Bogged,  as  usual,  you 
see,  Jemima,"  she  says,  ruefully,  "  and  in  for  black  looks, 
as  usual,  if  I  am  caught.  I  won't  be  caught.  I'll  steal  up 
the  back  way,  and  into  your  sanctum, .you  dear  old  solemn 
Jemima,  and  you  shall  fetch  me  down  an  evening  dress, 
and  I  will  repair  damages,  and  no  one  be  the  wiser. 
Have  you  be'en  waiting  long?" 

"Nearly  an  hour,  Miss  Snowball.  It's  just  gone 
nine." 

"  Is  it  !  You  see  I  carry  no  watch,  and — "  glancing  up 
with  a  quick  look  of  aversion  at  the  house — "  I  am  never 
in  a  hurry  to  come  back.  Have  I  been  missed  ?"  care- 
lessly. 

"  Yes,  Miss.  Miss  Valentine  asked  me  where  you  was, 
and  looked  cross." 

"  It  is  Miss  Valentine's  metier  to  look  cross,  my  Je- 
mima. Any  one  else?" 

"Well,"  reluctantly,  "Sir  Vane " 

"Yes.     Sir  Vane — goon." 


332  MY    LADY     VALENTINE. 

"  He  kind  o*  cussed  like,  between  his  teeth  sorter, 
when  he  heerd  you'd  gone  without  the  groom.  He  said 
folks  hereabouts  would  think  he'd  up  and  married  a  wild 
Injun — always  a-gallopin*  break-neck  over  the  country, 
without  so  much  as  a  servant.  He  said,"  hesitatingly, 
"  he'd  put  a  stop  to  sich  goin's  on,  or  know  the  reason, 
why." 

"Ah  !"  slowly,  "  did  he  say  all  this  to  you  ?" 

"  Kind  o'  to  me — kind  o'  to  himself.  But  I  allowed  he 
wanted  me  to  hear  it,  and  tell  you." 

"  Which  you  are  faithfully  doing,"  says  Sir  Vane's 
wife,  with  a  laugh  that  has  rather  a  bitter  ring.  "  And 
Miss  Dorothy — was  she  drinking  in  all  this  eloquence  ?" 

"She  was  there.     Yes,  Miss  Snowball." 

"  And  Miss  Routh  ? — the  family  circle  would  not  be 
complete  without  the  lovely  Camilla." 

"  Miss  Camilla  was  in  the  drawing-room.  She  has 
company — the  kirnal.  Don't  you  see  all  the  front  win- 
dows lit — and  hark  to  the  singing — that's  her  at  the 
planner.  I  guess  that  was  why  Sir  Vane  was  put  out  at 
your  being  away — the  kirnal  came  promiscus  with  some 
other  officers,  and  i{  made  him  mad  'cause  you  wan't  in  to 
dinner.  The  gentlemen  is  in  the  dining-room  yet,  drink- 
ing wine." 

"  Officers — Miss  Routh's  friends — odd  that  Sir  Vane 
should  invite  them  to  dinner.  How  many  are  there, 
Jemima?" 

"Three.  I  heerd  Miss  Routh  call  one  of  them 'my 
lord.'  If  you  dress  in  my  room,  Miss  Snowball,  what 
shall  I  bring  you  down  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  a  pin,  Jemima — it  does  not  matter 
With  the  beauteous  Camilla  to  look  at,  my  most  ravish- 
ing toilet  would  be  but  love's  labor  lost.  Bring  down 
anything  you  chance  to  light  on — the  dress  I  wore  yes- 
terday, for  instance.  But  first,  as  I  have  missed  my 
dinner,  it  seems,  and  am  hungry,  you  shall  bring  me 
some  coffee  and  chicken,  or  pate,  or  anything  good  v-.>u 


MY    LADY     VALENTINE.  333 

can  get — there  is  no  use  in  facing  misfortune  starving. 
Lock  your  door,  and  admit  no  one  for  the  next  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  though  the  whole  Valentine  family 
should  besiege  it  in  force." 

She  takes  a  side  entrance,  runs  lightly  up  a  stair,  along 
a  dimly-Jit  passage,  and  into  the  small  sitting-room 
reserved  for  the  use  of  my  lady's  maid — for  the  use  of 
my  lady  herself.  Often  enough  it  is  her  harbor  of  refuge 
in  troubled  times,  the  only  room  among  the  many  the  big 
house  contains,  in  which  she  ever  feels  even  remotely  "at 
home."  In  the  long  and  frequent  hours  of  heart-sickness, 
home-sickness,  disappointment,  sharply  wounded  pride, 
bitter  regret,  she  comes  here,  and  with  all  the  world  shut 
out,  bears  the  bitterness  of  her  terrible  mistake,  her  love- 
less marriage,  in  silence  and  alone. 

It  is  but  a  small  room,  cozy  and  carpeted,  and  there 
are  books,  and  flowers,  and  pictures,  and  needle-work, 
and  the  few  relics  of  the  old  life,  Dolores,  Lady  Valen- 
tine, has  brought  with  her  from  Rome.  It  is  all  the  cozier 
now,  for  the  wood  fire  that  burns  and  sparkles  cheerily, 
and  the  little  rocking-chair  that  sways  invitingly  before 
it.  Miss  Dorothy  has  uplifted  voice,  and  hands,  and 
eyes  in  protest  against  so  luxurious  a  chamber  being 
given  to  a  waiting-maid,  but  though  Miss  Dorothy  is  the 
supreme  power  behind  the  throne,  and  mistress  of  the 
Manor,  Sir  Vane's  young  wife  has  shown  she  can  assert 
herself  when  she  chooses. 

"Jemima  Ann  is  my  friend.  You  understand,  Miss 
Valentine  ?  Something  more  than  my  maid.  Her 
sitting-room — mine,  when  I  feel  like  it,  as  well — is  to  be 
pretty." 

And  pretty  it  is.  As  a  rule,  Lady  Valentine  lets  things 
go  ;  it  is  not  worth  while,  she  says,  wearily  ;  life  will  not 
be  worth  the  living  if  it  is  to  be  lived  in  a  perpetual 
wrangle.  Let  Miss  Dorothy  do  as  she  pleases.  When 
one  has  made  direst  shipwreck  of  one's  life,  it  is  hardly 
worth  the  trouble  of  quarreling  over  the  flotsam  and  jet- 


334  MY    LADY     VALENTINE. 

sam.  And  Miss  Dorothy  does  do  as  she  pleases  with  a 
very  high  hand.  And  so  it  comes  that  Sir  Vane's  bride 
flies  here  as  to  the  "shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land,"  oftener  and  more  often,  or  mounts  her  black  horse 
and  flies  over  the  hills  and  far  away,  out  of  reach  of 
Miss  Dorothy's  rasping  tones.  Safe  in  this  harbor 
of  refuge,  Jemima  Ann  leaves  her  mistress,  locking 
the  door  after  her  according  to  orders,  and  goes  for 
the  coffee  and  accompaniments.  Dolores  stands  by  the 
tire,  holding  her  riding-whip  in  her  hand,  her  long, 
muddied  habit  trailing  behind  her,  her  eyes  on  the  fire. 
She  has  thrown  off  her  hat,  and  the  fire-shine  falls 
full  upon  her,  standing  quite  still,  and  very  thought- 
ful here.  Look  at  her.  It  is  seven  months  since  her 
wedding  day — as  many  years  might  have  passed,  and  not 
wrought  so  striking  a  change  in  her.  She  looks  taller 
than  of  old,  and,  it  seems,  even  more  slender,  but  that 
may  be  due  to  the  long,  tightly-fitting  habit.  Her  face 
is  certainly  thinner,  with  an  expression  of  dignity  and 
gravity  that  it  never  used  to  wear.  All  the  old  spark- 
ling, child-like  brightness  is  gone,  or  flashes  out  so 
rarely  as  to  render  its  absence  more  conspicuous.  A 
look,  not  quite  of  either  hardness  or  defiance,  and  yet 
akin  to  both,  sets  her  mouth — the  look  of  one  whom 
those  about  her  force  to  hold  her  own,  the  look  of  one 
habitually  misunderstood.  All  the  bounteous  chevelure 
doree  that  of  old  fell  free,  is  twisted  in  shining  coils 
tightly  around  the  small,  deer-like  head.  Ihe  golden 
locks,  like  the  fair  one  who  wears  them,  have  lost  their 
sunny  freedom  forever.  She  has  tasted  of  the  fruit  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge,  and  found  it  bitter.  The  old  sparkle, 
the  old  joyous  life  of  love,  and  trust  in  all  things  and  crea- 
tures, is  at  an  end  forever.  Snowball  Trillon — Dolores 
Macdonald — have  gone,  never  to  return;  and  left  in  place 
this  rather  proud-looking,  this  reserved  and  self-poised 
Lady  Valentine.  The  fair  head  holds  itself  well  up — • 
defiantly,  a  stranger  might  think  ;  the  blue  eyes  are 


GREETING.  335 

watchful,  as  of  one  ever  on  guard.  But  pride  and  defiance 
alike  drop  from  her  as  she  stands  here  alone — a  great 
fixed  sadness  only  remains.  The  blue  eyes  that  gaze  at 
the  leaping  light  are  strangely  mournful,  the  sensitive 
lips  lose  their  haughty  curve  and  droop.  She  has  made 
a  great,  a  bitter,  an  irreparable  mistake.  She  has  bound 
herself  for  life  to  a  tyrant,  a  harsh,  loveless  household 
despot,  a  man  whose  heart — such  as  it  is — is  now,  and 
ever  has  been,  in  the  keeping  of  Camilla  Routh.  She 
has  made  her  sacrifice,  and  made  it  in  vain,  that  a  man, 
mercenary  and  money-loving,  might  have  the  Valentine 
fortune.  She  has  thought  to  learn  to  love  him,  she  has 
thought  that  he  loved  her — she  knows  that  love  never 
has,  and  never  will,  enter  into  the  unnatural  compact. 
She  has  made,  as  many  women  before  her  have  made,  a 
fatal  mistake  ;  she  has  done  a  wrong  in  marrying  Sir 
Vane  Valentine  that  her  whole  life  long  can  never  undo. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

"FULL  COLD   MY   GREETING   WAS,   AND  DRY." 

TANDING  here,  waiting  for  Jemima  Ann,  her 
thoughts  go  back — back  over  these  last  seven 
months  that  have  wrought  so  great  a  change 
in  her,  that  she  sits  and  wonders  sometimes 
if  "1  be  I."  Those  months  rise  up  before  her,  a  series 
of  dissolving  views  in  the  fire,  the  slow,  first  awakening 
to  the  fact  that  she  has  made  a  life-long  mistake,  that  Sir 
Vane  has  married  her  fortune — only  her  fortune — that  in 
his  secret  heart  his  feeling  for  her  is  more  akin  to  hate 
than  love.  Two  months  of  marriage  suffice  to  show  her 
this  much  ;  slowly  but  surely  it  has  come  home  to  her, 
through  no  one  particular  word  or  act,  but  simply 


336  GREETING. 

from  the  fact  that  truth,  like  murder,  will  out.  The 
innate  brutality  of  the  man  has  shown  itself  in  spite  of 
nim,  through  the  thin  outer  veneer  of  good  manners, 
from  the  very  beginning.  The  first  overt  act  was  upon 
the  news  of  the  death  of  Madam  Valentine  in  Rome. 
Stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  that  tragic  death,  wild 
with  all  regret,  Dolores'  first  impulse  was  to  fly  back 
at  once — at  once.  But  Sir  Vane,  quite  composedly, 
quite  authoritatively,  put  the  impulse  and  the  hysterics 
aside. 

"Nonsense,  Lady  Valentine,"  he  says,  coolly,  "  she  is 
buried  by  this  time,  or  is  certain  to  be  before  you  can 
get  there.  If  your  friend,  Macdonald,  the  marble  carver, 
could  not  have  sent  you  word  in  time  to  see  her  living, 
he  need  not  have  sent  you  word  at  all.  And  she  was  a 
very  old  woman — it  was  quite  to  be  expected,  even  with- 
out the  intervention  of  the  railway.  You  did  not  sup- 
pose she  would  live  forever,  did  you  ?  Though  'gad," 
Sir  Vane  adds,  sottovoce^  "it  is  the  conclusion /had  about 
come  to  myself." 

There  are  tears,  a  very  storm  of  wild  weeping, 
prayers,  supplications — an  agony  of  grief.  "  Oh,  grand- 
mamma !  grandmamma  !"  the  poor  child  sobs — a  sense 
of  utter  desolation  rending  her  heart.  It  is  a  vehement 
scene,  and  Sir  Vane  is  extremely  bored.  He  bears  it  for 
awhile  in  silence,  then  the  temper  that  is  in  the  man 
asserts  itself  suddenly.  He  throws  down  the  English 
paper  he  has  been  reading,  and  speaks  loudly  and 
harshly.  "  Enough  of  this,"  he  says  ;  "  don't  be  a  baby 
or  a  fool,  Dolores.  Madam  Valentine  is  dead,  and  you 
are  her  heiress.  What  is  yours  is  mine,  and  I  have 
waited  for  it  for  twenty  years.  One  may  buy  even  gold 
too  dear — I  sometimes  think  I  have  had  to  do  it.  It  is 
mine  at  last,  and  it  is  a  noble  inheritance,  and  I  am  not 
disposed  to  grieve,  or  let  you  grieve,  too  deeply,  over 
this  accident  that  has  taken  her  off.  It  was  quite  time 
she  went.  When  people  get  into  a  habit  of  dragging 


GREETING.  337 

out  life  over  sixty,  they  seldom  know  where  to  stop 
Dry  your  eyes,  Lady  Valentine  ;  there  is  the  dinner-bell. 
We  are  to  dine  at  the  table  tfhote  ;  it  is  less  expensive,  I 
find,  than  dining  in  one's  own  apartments,  and  a  great 
deal  less  dull." 

That  is  how  the  death  is  received.  Indignant  fire, 
dries  the  tears  in  Lady  Valentine's  blue  eyes.  She 
shrinks  in  a  sort  of  horror  from  the  man  she  has  married, 
the  man  who  has  spoken  those  brutal  words.  From 
thenceforth  her  tears  flow  in  secret,  they  trouble  Sir 
Vane  no  more.  But  from  thenceforth,  too,  a  strong 
repulsion,  she  has  never  felt  for  him  before,  fills  her, 
makes  her  shrink  from  his  touch,  with  a  sensation  that 
is  little  short  of  loathing. 

Her  second  repulse  is  on  the  subject  of  her  mourn- 
ing. Lady  Valentine  naturally  wishes  to  order  it  at 
once  ;  it  seems  to  her  she  can  find  no  black  black  enough 
to  express  the  loneliness,  the  sorrow,  that  fills  her  at  the 
loss  of  her  best  friend,  who  loved  her  so  well.  Here, 
too,  marital  authority  steps  in.  "  I  hate  black  !"  Sir 
Vane  says,  petulantly  ;  "  I  abhor  it.  Crape  and  bomba- 
zine, and  all  the  other  ugly  trappings  of  woe  and  death'. 
I'll  have  none  of  them  !  I  object  to  mourning  garments 
— on — conviction.  I  consider  it  wrong,  and — er — flying 
in  the  lace  of  Providence,  who — er — must  know  best 
about  this  sort  of  thing,  of  course — when  to  remove 
people,  and  all  that.  It  would  give  me  the  horrors  to 
go  about  with  a  lady  looking  like  an  ebony  image,  a 
perpetual  memento  mart.  You  shall  not  do  it,  Lady  Val- 
entine ;  it  is  of  no  use  firing  up,  or  looking  at  me  like 
that.  I  am  not  easily  annihilated  by  flashing  glances, 
and  I  mean  to  be  obeyed  in  this  and  all  things.  And  if 
people  make  remarks  I'll  explain.  And  a  mourning 
outfit,"  this  added  inwardly,  "  costs  a  pot  of  money,  so 
Camilla  writes  me." 

The  decree  is  spoken  from  which  there  may  be  no 
appeal.     Dolores  does  appeal,  passionately,  vehemently, 
15 


338  GREETING. 

angrily  it  is  to  be  feared — it  cannot  be  that  Sir  Vane 
means  these  merciless  words.  He  does  mean  them.  As 
vainly  as  waves  dash  themselves  against  a  rock,  she  beats 
her  undisciplined  heart  against  the  dogged  obstinacy  of 
ihis  man  "  I  never  change  my  mind,  Lady  Valentine," 
ne  says,  grimly,  '  when  once  I  am  convinced  I  am  right. 
I  am  convinced  here.  And  tears  and  reproaches  are 
utterly  wasted  upon  me — you  had  better  learn  that  in 
time.  Let  us  have  no  more  of  these  ridiculous,  under- 
bred scenes — these  hysterics,  and  exclamations,  and  red- 
dened eyes.  It  is  all  exceedingly  bad  form,  and  coarse 
and  repulsive  to  a  disgusting  degree.  You  shall  not 
return  to  Rome,  you  shall  not  put  on  black.  If  you 
force  me  to  use  my  authority  in  this  way,  you  must  take 
the  consequences.  '  Be  so  good  as  to  dry  your  eyes,  and 
let  all  this  end." 

And  Dolores  obeys — fiery  wrath  dries  up  the  tears  in 
the  blue  eyes,  and  in  her  passionate  heart  at  that  moment 
she  feels  that  she  abhors  the  man  she  has  married.  The 
Reeling  does  not  last,  it  is  true  ;  Dolores  is  not  a  good 
hater — it  is  a  loving  little  soul,  a  tender,  child-like,  con- 
fiding heart,  that  must  of  its  nature  cling  to  something  ; 
that  would  cling,  if  it  could,  to  the  man  who  is  her  hus- 
band. Duty  points  that  way,  and  Dolores  has  very 
strong  instincts  concerning  duty,  but  try  as  she  will  she 
cannot.  On  every  point  she  is  repulsed.  He  wants 
none  of  her  love,  none  of  her  confidence,  none  of  her 
wifely  duty.  He  has  married  her  because  otherwise  a 
fortune  would  have  slipped  his  grasp  ;  he  has  been  com- 
pelled to  marry  her,  and  he  hates  everything  by  which 
he  is  compelled.  "  She  cared  for  that  other  fellow — the 
"  marble  carver  in  Rome,"  so  run  his  thoughts,  contemptu- 
ously, and  he  is  base  enough  to  set  that  down  as  the 
mainspring  of  her  desire  to  go  back.  Without  caring 
lor  her,  himself,  one  jot,  he  is  yet  wrathful  that  it  should 
be  so.  She  married  him  to  please  her  grandmother, 
against  every  girlish  inclination  of  her  own  ;  he  will 


GREETING,  339 

make  her  feel  that  to  his  dying  day.  He  bears  her  a  bit- 
ter grudge  ;  she  came  between  him  and  the  fortune  for 
which  he  had  served  for  a  weary  score  of  years — let  her 
look  to  it  in  the  days  to  come  ;  let  her  not  hope  that  he 
will  ever  forget,  or  spare,  or  yield,  or  forgive  ! 

And  so  alone,  forced-  ruthlessly  to  wake  to  the  bitter 
truth,  Dolores  has  had  the  fact  that  her  life  is  spoiled 
brought  home  to  her  well,  before  the  first  two  months  of 
her  "  honey  moon  "  are  over.  Alone  !  A  dreary,  a  de- 
spairing sense  that  she  will  be,  must  be,  alone  for  the 
rest  of  her  life,  fills  her  at  times  with  a  blank  sense  of 
horror  and  fear.  Alone  !  with  Sir  Vane  Valentine,  till 
death  shall  them  part.  Alone  !  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land,  an  intruder  in  her  husband's  house,  a  home  without 
love,  without  one  friend.  A  panic  of  terror  seizes  her  when 
she  thinks  of  it,  a  fear  that  is  like  the  fear  of  a  child  left 
alone  in  the  dark.  She  clings  to  Jemima  Ann,  at  such 
times,  with  a  passionate  clinging  that  goes  near  to  break 
that  faithful  creature's  heart. 

"Do  not  leave  me,  Jemima,"  she  cries  out ;  "promise 
me  you  will  not  ;  promise  me  you  will  stay  with  me  as 
long  as  I  live.  I  have  no  one,  no  one,  no  one  left  but 
you."  And  Jemima  fondles,  and  soothes,  and  promises 
as  she  might  a  veritable  frightened  child.  She  sees,  and 
understands,  and  resents  it  all,  but  she  is  especially  care- 
ful not  to  let  this  resentment  appear.  Sir  Vane  eyes 
her,  has  eyed  her  from  the  first,  with  sour  disfavor, 
mingled  with  contempt ;  he  has  striven  fro  dissuade  his 
wife  from  taking  with  her  so  outre  a  maid.  Her  honest 
heart  aches  for  her  pretty  young  mistress,  who  grows 
paler,  and  thinner,  and  sadder,  and  more  silent  day  by 
day,  who  never  complains,  and  who  clings  to  l:er  as  the 
drowning  cling  to  the  last  straw.  It  is  her  last  straw, 
her  last  hold  upon  love  ;  every  one  else  seems  to  have 
slipped  forever  out  of  her  life.  She  stands  alone  in  the 
world,  at  the  mercy  of  Vane  Valentine. 

All  these  months  of  post-nuptial  wandering,  Sir  Vane 


340  A     GREETING. 

keeps  up  a  voluminous  correspondence  with  tne  ladies 
of  Manor  Valentine.  Lengthy  epistles  from  his  sister  and 
cousin  come  to  him  with  each  post.  His  wife,  of  course 
reads  none  of  these ;  she  has  no  desire  to  read  them. 
His  womankind  must  of  necessity  be  like  himself.  She 
looks  forward  with  unspeakable  dread  to  the  return  to 
the  house  that  is  to  be  her  home.  The  present  is  bad 
enough  ;  with  a  sure  prescience  she  feels  that  any 
change^*— that  most  of  all — will  be  for  the  worse.  Now, 
at  least,  there  is  the  excitement  of  new  scenes,  new  faces, 
kindly  stranger  voices ;  there  a  monotony  worse  than 
death  will  set  in.  There,  there  will  be  three  to  find  fault 
with  her  instead  of  only  one.  For  Sir  Vane  seems  tc 
take  a  rancorous,  venomish  pleasure  in  girding  at  his 
young  bride.  If  she  is  silent,  she  is  sullen  ;  if  she  laughs 
aloud,  as  from  pure  youth  she  sometimes  does,  she  is  a 
hoiden ;  if  she  talks  to  Jemima,  she  is  addicted  to  low 
and  vulgar  tastes.  In  all  things  her  manners  lack  repose, 
and  are  childish  and  gauche  to  a  degree;  altogether  un- 
fitting the  dignity  of  that  station  in  life  to  which  it  has 
pleased  Providence  to  elevate  her. 

What  wonder  that  she  looks  onward  in  blank  dismay 
and  affright  to  the  dismal  home-going  to  Valentine 
Manor  !  With  eyes  of  passionate  longing  and  envy  she 
looks  at  the  peasant  girls  in  the  streets  ;  at  the  grisettes, 
who  go  to  their  daily  work  ;  at  the  wandering  gypsy 
women,  with  their  brown  babies  at  their  backs.  Oh,  to 
be  one  of  them — to  be  anything  free,  and  happy,  and  be- 
'  loved  again  !  She  looks  back  in  a  very  passion  of  long- 
ing to  the  life  of  long  ago — the  life  of  Isle  Perdrix,  with 
her  boys,  and  her  boat,  and  her  hosts  of  friends,  and  the 
gentle  old  doctor — to  that  other  later  life,  with  grand- 
mamma— grandmamma  indulgent  and  best  loved — and 
even  Sir  Vane — a  very  different  .Sir  Vane  from  this — the 
suave,  guarded,  deferential  suitor.  A  strange,  mournful, 
incredulous  wonder  fills  her.  Was  that  man  and  this  the 
same?  And  Rene — but  she  stops  here;  that  way  mad- 


A     GREETING.  341 

ness  lies  She  covers  her  face,  and  sobs  rend  their  way 
up  from  her  heart ;  tears,  that  might  be  of  blood,  they  so 
sear,  and  blister,  and  burn,  fall.  Rene  !  Rene  !  Rene  ' 

"  J  have  lived  and  loved,  but  that  was  to-day ; 
Go  bring  me  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow." 

Her  heart  breaks  over  Thekla's  sad  song.  Life 
seems  to  have  come  to  an  end.  It  came  to  an  end  for 
her  on  the  day  it  begins  for  other  girls — her  wedding- 
day. 

And  now  the  revolving  lights  in  the  fire  change ; 
another  series  of  pictures  rise.  It  is  a  rainy  March  after- 
noon, and  the  express  is  thundering  along  the  iron  road 
to  the  station  where  the  carriage  from  Valentine  is  to 
meet  them,  with  the  sister  and  cousin  so  much  dreaded. 
Sir  Vane  has  telegraphed  from  London.  He  is  in  a 
fever  of  nervous,  restless  impatience  ;  his  sallow  cheeks 
wear  a  flush  ;  his  black  eyes  glitter  ;  his  lean  fingers 
twist  his  mustache.  He  can  only  constrain  himself  to 
sit  still  by  an  effort  ;  he  cannot  read  his  Times  ;  he  keeps 
putting  up  and  letting  down  the  window,  until  the  other 
people  in  the  compartment  look  at  him  in  exasperated 
amaze.  Lady  Valentine  sits  back  in  a  corner,  and  a 
more  utter  contrast  to  his  restless  fidgettiness  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find. 

She  is  very  pale,  she  is  cold  ;  the  March  breeze  blow- 
ing in  through  the  window  Sir  Vane  opens  at  intervals 
chills  her  through,  in  spite  of  her  furs  ;  a  silent  great 
dread  looks  out  of  her  eyes.  She  sits  quite  silent,  quite 
motionless,  quite  white.  The  wind  goes  by  with  a 
shriek,  like  a  banshee's,  she  thinks,  with  a  shiver  ;  the 
rain  falls  in  long,  slanting  lines.  It  is  all  in  keeping 
with  her  heart — this  dark  and  weeping  day — her  heart, 
that  lies  like  lead  in  her  breast.  This  is  to  be  all  of  life 
for  her,  coldness,  darkness,  storm,  and — Sir  Vane  Valen- 
tine '  They  rush  into  the  station.  Her  hour  has  come  ; 


342  A     GREETING. 

"Is  the  carriage  from  Valentine  waiting?"  Sir  Vane 
demands,  authoritatively,  and  the  reply  is  crushing  : 

"  No,  there  ain't  no  carriage  from  Valentine." 

Nothing  is  waiting  but  one  forlorn,  dejected, 
bedraggled  railway  fly.  The  baronet  is  furious,  but  the 
fact  remains.  His  telegram  has  been  unheeded,  no 
carriage  is  in  waiting ;  the  lord  of  the  land,  and  his 
bride,  must  perforce  go  in  the  stuffy  fly,  or  walk  through 
the  rain.  Sir  Vane  swears — anathemas  "  not  loud  but 
deep  " — it  is  another  of  the  objectionable  things  he  never 
used  to  do,  or  if  he  did,  "it  must  have  been  in  his 
inside,"  as  Jemima  Ann  puts  it.  Dolores  shrinks  within 
herself,  more  and  more  repelled.  There  is  no  help  for 
it,  the  fly  it  must  be  ;  he  helps  her  in,  follows,  and  so, 
through  mire  and  rain,  in  silence  and  gloom  Sir  Vane 
and  Lady  Valentine  ignominiously  return  to  the  halls  of 
their  ancestors. 

Within  those  halls  it  is  worse.  No  one  awaits  them 
— no  one  expects  them.  No  train  of  retainers  is  drawn 
up  in  the  entrance-hall  to  bid  their  lord  welcome,  no  fires 
blaze,  no  smiling  sister  or  cousin  receives  them  with  open 
arms.  Black  fire-places,  cold  rooms,  surprised  faces  of 

servants  alone  meet  them.     What  the does  it  mean  ? 

Where  is  Miss  Valentine?  Where  is  Miss  Routh? 
Where  is  his  telegram  ?  Sir  Vane  is  savage  beyond  all 
precedent.  Then  it  appears  that  the  telegram  is  lying  on 
Miss  Valentine's  table,  still  unopened,  and  Miss  Valentine 
and  Miss  Routh  went  up  to  town  yesterday,  and  are  not 
expected  back  until  to-morrow.  Direst  wrath  fills  Sir 
Vane,  but  it  is  wrath  expended  on  empty  air.  The  ser- 
vants fly  to  do  his  bidding,  fires  are  lit,  dinner  is  laid,  my 
lady  is  shown  to  her  room — a  very  pallid,  and  spiritless, 
and  fagged  my  lady. 

The  servants  look  at  her  furtively  and  are  disap- 
pointed. They  have  been  told  that  master  married  a 
great  beauty  and  heiress — she  looks  neither  in  the  wet 
dreariness  of  this  dismal  home-coming.  Left  alone,  she 


A     GREETING.  343 

sinks  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  lays  her  arms  on  the 
table,  droops  her  aching  head  upon  them,  and  so  lies — too 
utterly  wretched  even  for  the  relief  of  tears. 

Next  day  the  ladies  of  the  Manor  return,  full  of  dis 
may  and  regret  at  the  contretemps.  Sir  Vane  is  bitter  and 
unreasonable  at  first,  but  these  being  the  only  two  crea- 
tures on  earth  he  really  cares  for,  he  allows  himself  to  be 
softened  gradually,  and  forgives  them  handsomely.  A 
prolonged  family  colloquy  ensues.  Dolores  takes  no 
part  in  it,  but  from  a  distance  she  has  seen  the  meeting — 
seen  Miss  Valentine  kiss  her  brother  primly  on  the  fore- 
head, seen  Miss  Routh  offer  first  one  cheek,  then  the 
other,  seen  her  husband  stand  with  both  her  hands  clasped 
in  his,  a  look  in  his  dark  face  that  is  altogether  new  in 
his  wife's  experience  of  him.  She  dreads  the  ordeal  of 
meeting  these  two  women,  and  wishes  it  was  over — it  is 
something  that  must  be,  but  it  is  an  ordeal  that  sets  her 
teeth  on  edge. 

She  dresses  for  dinner  in  one  of  the  pretty  trousseau 
dresses — that  she  has  grown  to  hate,  since  she  never  puts 
them  on  without  feeling  it  should  be  black  instead,  and 
goes  down  stairs.  It  is  a  cool  but  fine  March  afternoon, 
and  meeting  no  one,  she  gathers  up  her  train,  and  de- 
scends to  a  terrace  that  commands  a  wide  view  of  the 
country  road  and  the  village  beyond,  and  paces  to  and 
fro,  mustering  courage  for  the  coming  ordeal.  The  or- 
deal comes  to  her  in  the  person  of  Miss  Dorothy  Valen- 
tine, in  sad  colored  silk,  not  a  confection  of  Madame  Elise 
-—Miss  Dorothy  Valentine,  as  grim  as  a  grenadier  and  as 
tall.  She  is  upright  as  a  ramrod,  and  nearly  as  slim — she 
is  a  duplicate  of  Sir  Vane,  in  slate-colored  silk,  and  false 
front.  She  is  lean  like  Sir  Vane,  she  is  yellow  like  Sir 
Vane,  with  a  mustache  that  the  very  highest  breeding 
cannot  quite  overlook  ;  she  has  small  black  eyes  like  Sir 
Vane,  she  has  a  rasping  bass  voice,  and  a  rigid  austerity 
of  manner,  and  she  has — at  first  glance — some  seven  and 
fifty  years.  On  her  false  front  of  bobbing  black  ringlets 


344  A     GREETING. 

she  wears  an  arrangement  of  lace  and  red  roses.  And 
she  holds  out  two  bony  fingers  in  sisterly  greeting  to  her 
brothers's  bride.  "  How  do  you  do,  Lady  Valentine  ?"  is 
what  she  says. 

The  black  eyes  go  through  the  shrinking  figure  before 
her — they  read  every  quivering,  nervous,  tremulous 
throb  of  her  childish  heart.  "  You  are  nothing  but  a 
baby,"  that  stern,  black  glance  seems  to  say.  "You  will 
need  a  great  deal  of  bringing  up,  and  keeping  down,  and 
training  in  the  way  you  should  go,  before  you  are  fit  for 
your  position  as  my  brother's  wife.  You  are  a  spoiled 
baby — a  foolish,  frivolous,  flighty  young  thing  ;  it  shall 
be  my  business  to  change  all  that." 

The  black,  grim  eyes  say  all  this,  and  a  chill  of  de- 
spair creeps  over  the  victim.  She  feels  crushed,  as  the 
captive  in  the  iron  shroud  may  have  felt,  watching  with 
hopeless  eyes  the  deadly  walls  of  his  prison  closing,  ever 
closing,  down  on  his  devoted  head. 

"  Shall  we  go  .n  to  dinner  ?"  is  Miss  Valentine's 
second  austere  remark  ;  "  that  is  the  last  bell.  We  are 
always  punctual,  most  punctual,  at  meals  in  this  house. 
It  is  one  of  my  rules,  and  my  brother  approves." 

"And  do  you  presume  to  be  late  at  your  peril,  young 
woman, "add  the  black,  snapping  eyes.  In  silence  Dolores 
turns  to  follow.  What  is  there  to  say  to  this  terrific 
chatelaine  ?  She  feels  she  will  never  be  able  to  talk  up 
to  her  awful  level  as  long  as  she  lives. 

"  We  are  very  sorry — Camilla  Routh  and  myself — 
at  our  misfortune  in  being  absent  yesterday  when  the 
telegram  arrived.  It  was  our  duty  to  be  here,  and  wel- 
come home  my  brother  and  his  wife.  My  brother,  with 
his  customary  goodness,  has  consented  to  overlook  it.  I 
trust,  Lady  Valentine,  you  do  likewise." 

Lady  Valentine  bows.  She  would  like  to  gasp  out 
something — something  conciliatory — but  the  command 
of  language  seems  to  have  been  frozen  at  its  source.  If 
she  lives  for  a  hundred  years,  she  thinks  desperately,  she 


A     GREETING  345 

will  nfvcrbe  able  to  talk  to  this  tertiKc  Miss  Dorothy 
Valentine.  A  gay  voice  is  singing  buthe'ly.  a  merry 
lilting  Scotch  song,  as  they  go  in.  They  are  in  time  only 
to  catch  the  refrain  : 

"  Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 
The  bright  yellow  guineas  for  me  !" 

Sir  Vane  is  standing  beside  the  piano,  a  smile  on  his 
face,  as  he  looks  down  at  the  gay  singer.  She  is  looking 
up  at  him — mischief,  malice,  coquetry  in  her  uplifted 
eyes.  She  rises  as  the  two  ladies  enter,  and  comes  for- 
ward— a  small  person  in  pale  pink  silk,  with  a  most 
elaborate  train,  and  a  still  more  elaborate  structure  of 
chestnut  puffs  and  ringlets  on  her  head — a  small,  rather 
plump  young  lady — that  is  to  say,  as  young  as  something 
over  thirty  years  will  permit — with  a  pink  and  white 
complexion,  and  the  very  palest  blue  eyes  that  ever 
looked  out  of  a  blonde  woman's  face. 

"  My  Cousin  Vane's  wife,"  she  exclaims  artlessly,  and 
holds  out  the  small,  very  ringed  hands,  "s0  very  happy, 
I  am  sure !"  The  pink  lips  touch,  the  slightest  touch, 
the  pale  cheek  of  Cousin  Vane's  wife  ;  the  light,  small 
eyes  take  in  one  comprehensive  flash  Cousin  Vane's  wife 
from  head  to  foot.  Then  Sir  Vane  comes  forward  and 
offers  her  his  arm,  and  they  all  go  in  to  dinner. 

It  is  dinner  in  little  but  name  and  form  to  the  bride. 
She  sits  in  almost  total  silence,  seldom  addressed  ;  the 
talk  of  the  other  three  is  of  places  and  people  unknown 
to  her.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  laughter  and  badinage 
on  the  part  of  Miss  Routh,  who  is  fairy-like  and  kittenish, 
as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  some  young  things  of  thirty  odd 
to  be,  and  Miss  Dorothy  ballasts  her  with  a  solid  and 
unsmiling  observation,  now  and  then.  All  through  *he 
long  evening  it  is  the  same.  Miss  Valentine  retires  to  a 
corner  and  a  table,  and  adds  up  accounts,  with  a  pair  of 
spectacles  over  the  black  eyes,  that  glitter  across  the 
room  in  quite  an  awful  way.  Miss  Routh,  who,  it 
15* 


346  A     GREETING. 

appears,  is  extremely  musical,  adorns  the  piano-stool, 
and  soothes  them  with  silvery  sounds.  Sir  Vane  en- 
thrones himself  in  an  easy-chair  near  by,  and  listens,  and 
reads  that  day's  Times  at  intervals.  Dolores  shrinks 
away  into  a  seat,  as  remote  from  them  all  as  possible,  in 
the  deep  embrasure  of  a  window,  and  looks  out  with 
eyes  that  are  blind  with  tears.  She  is  lonely,  homesick, 
heart-sick — she  is  far  away,  kneeling  beside  a  new-made 
grave  in  Rome.  Oh  !  dearest  grandmamma,  friend  of 
friends — generous  heart  that  poured  out  love  upon  her 
lavishly,  and  without  stint  ! 

It  is  a  dark,  moonless  night ;  outside  the  window 
there  is  little  to  be  seen  but  a  patch  of  cloudy  sky,  and 
tall  trees  rocking  to  and  fro,  in  a  rising  gale,  like  black 
phantoms.  Miss  Routh's  singing,  more  shrill  than  sweet, 
if  truth  must  be  told,  pierces  drearily  through  her  sad 
dream. 

"  Old  loves,  new  loves,  what  are  they  worth  ? 

Only  a  song  !    Tra-la-la-la  ! 
Old  love  dies  at  new  love's  birth, 

Give  him  a  song.    Tra-la-la-la ! 
New  love  lasts  for  a  night  and  a  day. 

Cares  not  for  tears, 

Mocks  at  all  fears, 
Flies  laughing  away ! 
Then  what  is  love  worth 

At  death  or  at  birth  ? 
Only  a  song.    Tra-la-la-la  !" 

The  song  is  a  foolish  one — it  cannot  be  that — per- 
haps it  is  the  desolate  sighing  of  the  night  wind,  but  a 
hysterical  feeling  rises  and  throbs  in  the  girl's  throat. 
Her  heart  is  full — full  to  overflowing,  of  loneliness,  and 
heart-break,  and  pain.  She  bears  it — as  long  as  she  can 
— then  with  a  hysterical  feeling  in  her  throat,  she  gets 
up,  passes  swiftly  from  the  room,  and  runs  down  to 
Jemima  Ann's  sanctum.  There,  alone,  Jemima  Ann  sits, 
placidly  sewing  by  the  light  of  her  lamp,  and  there  her 
vouthful  mistress  flings  herself  down  on  her  knees 
beside  her,  in  all  the  bravery  of  her  silk  dinner-dress, 


ALL    IS    DARK.  347 

and  buries  her  head  in  her  lap,  and  cries — cries  as  if  her 
very  heart  were  breaking. 

"  Jemima  !  Jemima  !  Jemima  !"  she  cries  wildly  out. 
And  Jemima  holds  her  fast,  and  kisses  the  golden  hair, 
and  murmurs  broken  words  of  fondness  and  caressing 
between  her  own  tears  of  sympathy. 

"  There,  there,  there,  my  lamb,  my  pretty,  my  sweet 
young  lady,  don't,  don't  cry  like  that.  I  know  you're 
homesick — and  they're  all  old,  and  hard,  and  not  what 
you're  used  to.  And  you're  thinking  of  your  grandma, 
and  you  ain't  nothin*  but  a  child  when  all's  said  and 
done,  and  he's — oh  !  my  dear  !  my  dear  !  my  dear  !" 

That  is  Lady  Valentine's  coming  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
FOR  ALL  IS  DARK  WHERE  THOU  ART  NOT." 

HE  last  picture  fades  out  of  the  red  glow,  as 
Jemima's  key  again  turns  in  the  lock,  and 
she  re-enters  from  her  foraging  expedition. 
Lady  Valentine  wakes  from  her  dream  with 
a  sigh,  that  ends  in  a  smile,  as  she  looks  at  the  laden 
tray.  Chicken,  raised  pie,  toast,  tart,  jelly,  fruit,  cream, 
coffee — it  is  a  melange,  but  Jemima  Ann  knows  her 
young  mistress  had  a  headache  at  luncheon,  and  ate 
nothing,  and  has  indulged  in  a  ride  of  many  hours  since 
then. 

"  The  gentlemen  have  gone  up  to  the  drawing-room," 
she  says,  panting  under  her  load,  "and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Eccleman,  and  the  t\vo  Miss  Ecclemans,  has  come,  and 
that  there  young  Squire  Brooghton." 

"  Indeed,"  responds  my  lady,  lifting  her  eyebrows, 
"  well — they  say  there  is  safety  in  numbers — among  so 


348  ALL    IS    DARK. 

many,  I  will  not  be  missed.  Besides,  is  not  the  charm- 
ing Camilla  present  to  do  the  honors  ?  Neither  she  nor 
Sir  Vane  really  want  me — all  the  same,  I  am  certain  of 
a  reproof  for  my  absence.  I  am  glad  Mrs.  Eccleman  is 
there,  good  motherly  old  soul.  I  can  shelter  myself  and 
my  sins,  for  an  hour  or  two,  under  her  broad,  maternal 
wings." 

She  says  this  to  herself,  as  she  partakes  of  Jemima's 
spoil.  Mr.  Eccleman  is  the  rector.  Mrs.  Eccleman  is 
everything  that's  true,  is  most  plump,  and  genial,  and 
matronly,  and  with  both  the  rector  and  his  wife  Sir 
Vane's  pretty,  graceful,  youthful,  half  foreign  wife  is  a 
pec  and  a  favorite. 

"  And  now  to  dress,"  she  says,  getting  up,  "  and  to 
face  my  fate.  What  a  bore  it  all  is,  Jemima  Ann.  I 
would  much  rather  spend  the  evening  here  alone  with 
you." 

"  But  it  would  not  be  right,  Miss  Snowball.  They 
talk  as  it  is,  in  the  house,  about  your  spending  so  much 
of  your  time  with  me,  and  bein'  so  free  and  friendly  like 
with  your  maid.  Sir  Vane  don't  like  it,  and  Miss  Val- 
entine gives  me  black  looks  whenever  I  meet  her,  and 
Miss  Routh " 

"  That  will  do,  Jemima  ;  we  will  leave  Miss  Routh's 
name  out.  Button  my  dress,  please,  and  keep  out  of 
Miss  Routh's  way.  She  is  not  my  keeper,  at  least.  Now 
fasten  this  spray  of  honeysuckle  in  my  hair.  How  old 
and  ugly  it  makes  me  look,  wearing  my  hair  twisted  up 
in  these  tight  coils.  Miss  Dorothy  would  have  a  fit,  I 
suppose,  if  I  ever  let  it  loose  as  I  used." 

"  Ah  !  very  old  and  ugly  !"  assents  Jemima  Ann, 
standing  with  folded  hands,  and  loving  eyes,  and  gazing 
at  the  fair,  girlish  beauty  before  her  ;  "even  Miss  Dor- 
othy looks  young  and  lovely  beside  you.  How  can  Sir 
Vane  have  eyes  for  that  simperin'  white  cat  up  stairs," 
she  thinks,  inwardly,  "with  that  to  look  at.  And 
yet " 


ALL    IS    DARK.  349 

But  even  to  herself  she  is  loth  to  put  her  thought 
into  words.  Sir  Vane's  partiality  for  his  cousin,  his 
coldness  for  his  wife,  are  patent  to  all  the  household. 
And  Jemima  Ann  is  not  the  only  one  who  wonders.  For 
they  know  Miss  Routh  in  that  establishment,  and  she  is 
not  a  favorite.  "  A  green-eyed,  spying,  tattling  cat  !" 
that  is  the  universal  verdict  below  stairs.  "  And  what 
Sir  Vane  wants  either  her,  or  t'other  old  'un  for,  now 
that  he's  got  a  pretty  young  wife,  nobody  knows."  In 
their  eyes  she  is  neither  useful  nor  ornamental  ;  my  lady 
is  the  latter,  at  least,  and  as  gentle  and  "  haffable  "  as 
she  is  pretty.  But  Sir  Vane  is  in  love  with  Miss  Routh, 
has  always  been  in  love  with  her,  and  can  see  neither 
beauty  nor  any  other  charm  in  his  wife,  now  that  she  is 
his  wife. 

"  How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ?" 

he  might  have  demanded  with  the  poet. 

For  Miss  Routh — well,  she  is  in  love  with  the  excel- 
lent menage  and  menu  of  Manor  Valentine,  with  the  allow- 
ance Sir  Vane  makes  her,  with  her  pretty  rooms  and 
"  perquisites,"  with  being  franked  over  the  road  whenever 
she  travels,  with  the  old,  ivy-grown,  ponderous  Manor 
House  in  every  way  as  a  home. 

"  Will  I  do,  do  you  think,  Jemima  ?"  demands  Jemima's 
mistress,  looking  at  herself  in  rather  a  dissatisfied  way  in 
Jemima's  mirror.  "  I  am  dreadfully  tanned  riding  in  this 
March  wind  and  sun,  and  Sir  Vane  will  be  sure  to  notice 
and  disapprove.  And  I  don't  think  this  eau  de  Nil  dress 
becoming.  Perhaps  we  had  better  go  up  to  my  own 
room,  and  do  it  all  properly  ?" 

"  You  look  as  pretty  as  pretty,  Miss  Snowball,"  cries 
Jemima,  warmly.  "  Go  up  jest  as  you  be.  Miss  Camilla 
will  have  to  be  born  again,  I  reckon,  before  she  takes  the 
shine  off  you  /"  And  Jemima  is  right.  Dolores  is  in 
great  beauty  this  evening,  despite  sunburn.,  and  eau  de 
green.  The  pale,  lustrous  train  sweeps  far  behind 


350  ALL    IS    DARK. 

her  ;  its  trying  tint  is  toned  by  a  profusion  of  tulle  and 
lace.  A  little  knot  of  fairy  roses  is  twisted  with  the 
woodbine  spray  in  her  hair  ;  she  wears  a  blushing  breast- 
knot  of  the  same  sweet  flowers.  It  is  a  combination  that 
only  first  youth,  a  perfect  complexion,  and  golden  hair 
can  carry  off.  So,  in  her  fresh,  pearly  loveliness,  bring- 
ing her  silken  tail  of  lace  and  flounces  behind  her,  like 
Little  Bo-Peep's  sheep,  the  culprit  ascends  to  face  the 
foe. 

She  means  to  enter  by  a  portiere  that  opens  from  a 
cool,  green  fernery,  filled  just  now  with  silvery  light,  and 
twinkling  with  the  fall  of  a  fountain  in  its  marble  basin. 
The  tall,  green  fronds  nod  to  her  as  she  passes.  Within, 
the  piano  is  going  ;  Miss  Routh,  as  usual,  is  charming 
the  company  with  a  song.  She  has  not  much  voice — 
what  she  has  is  thin  and  shrill — it  is  "  linked  sweetness 
long  drawn  out."  Dolores'  hand  holds  back  the  heavy 
curtain,  while  she  takes  a  preparatory  peep,  but  a  pair  of 
lynx  eyes  note  even  that.  In  a  moment  her  husband 
stands  before  her,  his  hand  hard  on  her  wrist,  and  she  is 
drawn  backward  into  the  fernery,  and  Sir  Vane's  dark, 
hard  face  looks  down  upon  her,  darker,  harder,  than 
ever. 

"  Well !"  he  says,  and  his  voice  rasps  every  nerve  in 
the  girl's  body,  "  what  have  you  to  say  for  yourself, 
now  ?"  She  uplifts  two  blue,  pleading  eyes  to  his,  eyes 
so  innocent,  so  youthful,  that  they  might  have  moved 
even  him.  But  Sir  Vane  Valentine  is  not  easily  moved. 
"  Do  you  know  you  have  been  missed — your  singular 
absence  commented  on,  your  long,  lonely  rides  wondered 
at  ?  Do  you  know  I  am  looked  upon  with  suspicion  be- 
cause of  them  ?  Do  you  know  people  say  you  are  un- 
happy— have  something  on  your  mind — that  it  is  because 
you  are  wretched  as  my  wife,  that  you  go  careering  over 
the  country  like  a  mad  woman  ?  J)o  you  know  you  neg- 
lect every  social  and  household  duty  for  these  insane 
rides  ?" 


ALL    IS    DARK.  351 

She  is  in  for  it  with  a  vengeance,  and  her  spirit  rises 
to  meet  the  assault.  "  Social  and  household  duty  !  she 
repeats.  "  I  did  not  know  I  had  any.  I  am  relieved 
from  all  cares  of  that  sort,  in  this  house." 

"  Do  you  know,  in  a  word,  that  your  conduct  !s  dis- 
graceful— disgraceful  ?"  goes  on  Sir  Vane,  twisting  his 
mustache  with  those  long,  lean,  nervous,  brown  fingers 
of  his. 

The  color  flushes  up  in  Dolores'  face.  The  blue  eyes 
uplift  again,  very  steadily  this  time,  and  meet  the  irate 
black  ones  full.  "Disgraceful!"  she  repeats  once  more, 
the  slender  figure  very  straight,  the  white  throat  held 
very  high,  "  that  is  a  strong  word,  Sir  Vane  Valentine. 
Since  when  has  my  conduct  been  disgraceful  ?" 

"Since  I  have  known  you  !  In  Rome  you  spent  half 
your  time  in  the  workshop  of  that  marble  cutter  Mac- 
donald — a  fellow  in  love  with  you,  as  you  very  well 
knew — as  he  took  care  to  let  you  know,  no  doubt.  And 
you — how  was  it  with  you  in  those  days  ?  Here,  you 
contemn  my  sister,  ignore  my  cousin,  set  at  naught  my 
wishes,  slight  my  guests,  spend  your  time  in  the  saddle, 
or  by  the  side  of  that  atrocious  Yankee  woman,  the  very 
sight  of  whom — with  her  nasal  twang  and  gorilla  face — 
I  have  always  detested.  You  defy  me  and  public 
opinion  by  galloping  breakneck  across  the  country, 
heaven  knows  where,  without  so  much  as  a  groom.  By 
what  name  are  we  to  call  such  conduct  as  this  ?" 

The  flush  has  faded  from  her  face,  faded  and  left  her 
strangely  pallid  and  still.  She  stands,  her  hands  clasped 
loosely  before  her,  her  steadfast,  scornful  gaze  still  fixed 
upon  him. 

"You  make  out  a  strong  case  ;"  there  is  a  quick  catch 
in  her  breath,  but  her  voice  is  quiet.  "  Is  the  indictment 
all  read,  Sir  Vane,  or  is  there  more  to  come  ?" 

"Your  bravado  will  not  avail  you,  Lady  Valentine 
Tt  is  time  all  this  ceased.  It  shall  cease  from  to-night,  01 
I  shall  know  the  reason  why." 


352  ALL    IS    DARK. 

She  bows.     "  As  the  king  wills !     What   are  your 
wishes?     It   is  not  in  form  to  lose  your  temper,  is  it? 
Be  good  enough  to  signify  what  you  desire — no,  com 
mand — me  to  do,  distinctly,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  obey." 

"  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  the  kind  of  obedience  I  may  ex- 
pect. Why  have  you  dismissed  Lennard,  the  groom  ?" 

"  Simply  because  if  I  must  creep  along  at  a  snail's 
pace,  to  accommodate  Lennard's  rate  of  riding,  I  prefer 
not  to  ride  at  all.  Appoint  a  man  who  can  keep  me  in 
sight,  and  I  shall  submit  to  his  surveillance.  I  can  give 
up  going  out  altogether,  though,  if  you  prefer  it." 

"  And  have  the  country  set  me  down  as  a  tyrant, 
keeping  my  wife  under  lock  and  key.  Therdle  of  martyr 
would  suit  you,  no  doubt.  No,  you  may  ride,  with  a 
groom,  but  not  at  the  pace  you  indulge  in,  nor  till  such 
outrageous  hours.  For  the  rest,  I  desire  you  to  dismiss 
that  woman." 

"  What  woman  ?"  startled.  "  You  do  not  mean — no, 
impossible  ! — Jemima  Ann  ?" 

4<I  mean  Jemima  Ann.  Her  presence  is  odious  to  me. 
It  always  was.  You  have  had  her  from  the  first,  in  open 
defiance  of  my  express  wishes.  And  only  to-day  she  in- 
sulted Miss  Routh." 

"  Insulted  Miss  Routh  !  Jemima  Ann  insult  any  one  ! 
Oh  !  pardon  me,  Sir  Vane,  I  cannot  believe  that." 

"  Do  you  insinuate  that  Miss  Routh  says  what  is  not 
true  ?" 

'I  think  Miss  Routh  quite  capable  of  it,"  retorts 
Dolores,  calmly,  though  her  heart  is  beating  passionately 
fast  "  Miss  Routh  is  capable  of  a  good  deal  to  injure  a 
person  she  dislikes.  And  I  know  she  dislikes  poor 
•  Jemima.  If  she  says  my  maid  insulted  her,  I  believe  she 
says  a  thing  deliberately  untrue." 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  the  angry  baronet  exclaims,  "  this  is 
too  much.  To  my  very  face  you  tell  me  my  cousin  lies  ! 
But  this  is  no  time  nor  place  for  such  a  discussion.  We 
settle  this  matter  later.  At  present,  if  you  mean  to 


ALL    IS    DARK.  353 

appear  among  my  guests  at  all  this  erening,  it  is  high 
time."  Fie  holds  back  fatportiere,  smooths,  as  \\ellashe 
can,  the  black  temper  within  him,  and  follows  her  in. 
She  is  perfectly  pale,  but  the  blue  eyes  are  starrily  bright, 
the  delicate  deer-like  head  held  high.  She  is  in  a  danger- 
ous humoral  this  moment ;  she  holds  herself  as  a  princess 
born  might.  All  timidity  has  vanished  ;  she  stands  at 
ease,  and  surveys  the  long  room.  And  she  is  a  picture  as 
she  stands.  One  of  the  Eccleman  girls  has  the  piano 
now,  an  attendant  cavalier,  the  extremely  young  Squire 
of  Broughton,  beside  her.  Miss  Dorothy  and  the  rector's 
wife  sit  on  a  sofa  and  wag  their  cap  ribbons  in  concert 
over  ponderous  household  matters.  Miss  Routh,  in  a 
shadowy  recess,  if  shadow  exists  in  such  brilliant  light, 
lies  back  in  a  dormeuse,  and  looks  up  with  that  artless, 
infantile  smile  of  hers  into  the  face  of  a  rather  dashing- 
looking  military  man  beside  her.  He  is  a  handsome  man, 
and  a  distinguished  one,  of  Sir  Vane's  age,  and  as  swarth 
as  a  Spaniard.  Miss  Routh  is  improving  the  shining 
moment  with  blue-green  glances,  and  alluring  smiles,  and 
sweetest  chit-chat — in  the  very  depths,  indeed,  of  a  most 
pronounced  flirtation. 

Sir  Vane  looks,  and  his  gloomy  eyes  grow  baleful. 
Miss  Routh  is  lost  to  him,  true  ;  all  the  same  he  glowers  at 
her  and  this  other  man.  He  knows  she  is  only  here, 
pending  what  time  she  may  bring  down  a  golden  goose 
of  her  own  and  fly  away  to  another  nest.  She  is  quite 
ready  to  say  "  Yes,  and  thank  you,"  at  this  or  any  other 
moment  Colonel  Deering  may  see  fit  to  throw  down  his 
heavy  dragoon  glove.  And  Sir  Vane  knows  it,  and  is 
gloomy,  and  wrathful,  and  jealous  accordingly.  Stand- 
ing here,  Dolores  sees  it  all;  her  husband's  frowning 
brow  ;  Miss  Routh's  absorption  ;  the  careless  smile  with 
which  the  dashing  officer  attends.  What  if  she  tries  her 
hand  at  reprisal — plays  at  Miss  Routh's  own  game,  and 
beats  her  on  her  own  ground  ?  She  is  in  a  dangerous 
mood.  She  is  younger  than  Miss  Routh  ;  she  is  quite  as 


354  ALL    IS    DARK. 

pretty ;  what  if  she  show  her  husband  she  can  be  as  at- 
tractive in  the  eyes  of  other  men  as  even  the  captivating 
Camilla  ?  She  is  no  coquette  ;  the  game  is  beneath  her, 
and  she  feels  it,  but  she  is  sore,  stung,  smarting,  hurt  to 
the  very  heart.  And  Camilla  Routh  is  the  mischief- 
maker  and  direct  cause  of  it  all.  Very  well,  let  Camilla 
Routh  look  to  it !  for  this  one  evening,  at  least, 

**  They  shall  take  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  shall  keep  who  can." 

Her  fixed  gaze  perhaps  magnetizes  the  handsome 
colonel.  He  looks  up,  across,  and  sees — a  goddess  !  As 
it  chances,  although  he  has  been  here  before,  it  is  the 
first  time  he  has  seen  this  face.  A  face  !  it  looks  to  him, 
in  the  sparkle  of  the  lamp,  a  radiant  vision,  all  gold  and 
green,  and  starry  eyes,  an  exquisite  face.  He  looks  and 
fairly  catches  his  breath.  "  Good  Heaven  !"  he  says, 
under  his  thick  trooper  mustache,  "what  a  perfectly 
lovely  girl  !" 

Then  he  turns  to  Miss  Routh,  too  much  absorbed  in 
her  own  vivacious  tittle-tattle  to  have  noticed,  and  says, 
in  his  customary  tones  : 

"  There  is  a  new  arrival,  I  fancy.  Who  is  that  young 
lady  in  the  green  dress?" 

Camilla  looks,  and  her  face  changes  for  a  second  ;  a 
sort  of  film,  it  seems  to  Colonel  Deering,  comes  over  the 
green  eyes.  "  That,"  she  answers,  coldly,  "  is  Lady 
Valentine." 

"  Lady  Valentine  ?  Ah  !"  in  accents  of  marked  sur- 
prise, "  Sir  Vane's  wife  ?" 

"  Sir  Vane's  wife.  A  wild  American  who  ousted  him 
out  of  a  fortune,  and  whom  he  married  after  to — secure 
it,"  says  Miss  Routh,  and  some  of  the  bitter  hatred 
within  her  hardens  her  dulcet  voice.  "  Her  youthful 
adorer,  Harry  Broughton,  is  leading  her  to  the  piano  ; 
we  are  to  hear  as  well  as  see  her,  it  seems.  She  spends 
her  time  galloping  over  the  country,  like  the  Indians  on 


ALL    IS    DARK.  355 

her  native  plains  ;  that  is  why  you  have  Jiot  seen  her  on 
any  previous  call.  She  is  called  pretty,'  carelessly,  "do 
you  think  her  so  ?" 

Colonel  Deering's  reply  is  of  course  to  order  ;  he  is 
much  too  mature  a  bird  to  be  caught  with  Camilla's 
smiling  chaff.  His  answer  smooths  away  the  rising 
frown  ;  he  does  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  glance  a 
second  time  at  the  group  surrounding  the  piano.  Maud 
Ecclcman  has  given  place  to  her  hostess.  She,  as  well 
as  the  youthful  Squire  of  Broughton,  is  the  ardent 
admirer  of  Lady  Valentine. 

"  Sing  that  lovely  thing  of  Adelaide  Procter's,  you 
sang  at  the  rectory  the  other  evening,"  says  Miss  Eccle- 
man  ;  "  the  plaintive  air  and  exquisite  words  have  been 
ringing  through  my  head  ever  since." 

" '  Where  I  fain  would  be '  ?"  asks  Dolores. 

The  smile  leaves  her  face,  lost  in  a  sigh.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  long,  lamp-lit  drawing-room  fades  away,  and 
the  sunny  shore  of  Isle  Perdrix  rises  before  her.  Rene  is 
standing  clasping  her  hands,  trying  to  say  good-by,  the 
boat  waits  below  that  is  to  bear  her  away  to  her  new  life. 
All  her  passionate,  sorrowful  heart  is  in  the  words  she 
sings  : 

44  Where  I  am  the  halls  are  gilded, 

Stored  with  pictures  bright  and  rare  ; 
Strains  of  deep  melodious  music 

Float  upon  the  perfumed  air. 
Nothing  stirs  the  dreary  silence, 

Save  the  melancholy  sea. 
Near  the  poor  and  humble  cottage 

Where  I  fain  would  be. 

Where  I  am  the  sun  is  shining, 

And  the  purple  windows  glow, 
Till  their  rich  armorial  shadows 

Stain  the  marble  floor  below. 
Faded  autumn  leaves  are  trembling 

On  the  withered  jasmine  tree, 
Creeping  round  the  little  casement. 

Where  I  fain  would  be. 

Where  I  am  all  think  me  happy. 
For  so  well  I  play  my  part, 


356  ALL    IS    DARK. 

None  can  guess,  who  smile  around  me. 

How  far  distant  is  my  heart — 
Far  away  in  a  poor  cottage, 

Listening  to  the  dreary  sea, 
Where  the  treasures  of  my  life  are 

There  I  fain  would  be." 

There  is  silence.  Something  in  the  song,  in  the  voice 
of  the  singer,  in  the  suggestions  of  the  words,  holds  all 
who  hear,  quite  still  for  a  moment.  In  that  moment  she 
rises — in  that  moment  Colonel  Deering,  stroking  his 
heavy  mustache  with  his  hand,  thrilled  by  the  song  and 
the  singer,  sees  the  brow  of  Sir  Vane  black  as  night,  sees 
the  malicious  smile  and  glance  Camilla  Routh  flashes 
across  at  him,  and  in  that  moment  knows  that  Sir  Vane's 
wife  is  as  miserable  as  she  is  beautiful.  "  God  !  I  don't 
see  how  it  could  be  otherwise,"  he  thinks,  "  married  to 
that  death's-head.  Miss  Routh,"  he  says,  aloud,  but  still 
carelessly,  "Lady  Valentine  has  a  voice,  and  knows  how 
to  throw  soul  into  words.  Do  me  the  favor — present 
me." 

Miss  Routh  rises  at  once — it  is  no  part  of  her  plans 
to  show  reluctance.  She  casts  a  second  mocking,  mali- 
cious glance  at  Sir  Vane  as  she  sweeps  by — he  is  seated 
beside  the  elder  Miss  Eccleman,  but,  Camilla  knows, 
loses  not  one  sight  or  sound  that  goes  on. 

Colonel  Deering  is  presented  in  form,  and  bows 
almost  as  profoundly  as  he  does  to  her  Majesty,  when  he 
attends  a  drawing-room.  "You  sang  that  song  with 
more  expression  than  I  ever  heard  thrown  into  a  song 
before,"  he  says.  "  We  are  all  fortunate  in  having  caged 
a  singing  bird  at  Valentine.  I  wish  I  could  prevail  upon 
you  to  let  us  hear  it  once  more." 

"  Sing  a  Scotch  song,  Dolores,  dear,"  chimes  in  Miss 
Routh,  sweetly,  "  Sing  Auld  Robin  Gray." 

The  malice  -of  the  suggestion  is  lost  on  Dolores. 
Harry  Broughton  adds  his  entreaties,  and  she  goes  again 
to  the  piano,  guarded  by  Colonel  Deering.  She  strikes 
the  chords,  and  sighs  forth  the  sweet  old  song  : 


ALL    IS    DARK.  357 

"  And  Auld  Robin  Gray  was  a  gude  man  to  me.  " 

"She  means  nothing  personal,  I  hope,  Vane,"  laughs 
the  artless  Camilla,  fluttering  down  by  his  side.  "Nine- 
teen and  forty-three — it  is  a  disparity.  I  wonder  you 
were  not  afraid.  It  is  a  pity — it  is  so  suggestive  coming 
after  the  other. 

"  *  Far  away  in  a  poor  cottage, 

Listening  to  the  dreary  sea, 
Where  the  treasures  of  my  life  are 
There  I  fain  would  be !' 

That  means  the  island,  of  course.  'Where  the  treasures 
of  my  life  are,'  chief  among  them  the  handsome  boy 
lover  of  those  blissful  days.  He  is  handsome,  Vane.  I 
saw  his  picture,  by  chance,  one  day,  in  her  album  ;  his 
name  underneath — Rene.  He  was  her  first  lover  ;  Col- 
onel Deering  bids  fair,  from  his  looks,  to  be  her  latest. 
Now,  there  is  really  no  need  for  you  to  scowl  in  that 
way,  my  dear  cousin,  I  am  but  in  jest,  of  course.  Of 
course  she  cannot  help  being  pretty,  and  exciting  admi- 
ration wherever  she  goes. 

"  '  I  dinna  think  o'  Jamie  now, 
For  that  wad  be  a  sin.'  " 

She  laughs  ;  it  is  a  laugh  that  makes  her  victim  writhe 
and  grind  his  teeth,  and  rises  to  flutter  away.  Sir  Vane 
twists  his  mustache  in  the  old  angry,  nervous  fashion, 
and  looks  up  at  his  tormentor,  and  makes  a  feeble  effort 
to  strike  back. 

"  Are  you  jealous,  Camilla  ?  I  do  see  that  Deering  is 
evidently  swerving  in  his  allegiance.  Land  him,  Camilla, 
if  you  can,  he  is  a  fish  worth  even  your  bait  ;  he  has  ten 
thousand  a  year,  and  will  write  his  name  high  in  the 
peerage  when  his  uncle  goes." 

"It  would  suit  me  very  well,  ten  thousand  a  year," 
responds  Miss  Routh,  coolly  ;  "whether  it  suits  him  or 
not,  cela  depend.  At  present  Lady  Valentine  seems  rather 


358  ALL    IS    DARK. 

to  have  the  game  in  her  own  hands  ;  you  perceive  she  is 
going  with  him  to  visit  the  orchid  house." 

The  blue-green  eyes  flash  balefully,  then  she  laughs. 
"  Suppose  we  too  go  and  look  at  the  orchids,  Vane  ?" 

They  go,  Sir  Vane  still  moodily  gnawing  his  mus- 
tache, irritated  with  his  wife,  Colonel  Deering,  Camilla 
Routh,  all  the  world.  "Have  you  spoken  to  your  wife 
about  the  impertinence  of  her  maid  ?"  she  asks,  as  they 
cross  the  room. 

"  Yes.  She  declines  to  credit  it ;  her  maid  is  incapa- 
ble of  impertinence  to  any  one.  So  she  says." 

"  Which  is  equivalent  to  saying  I  have  told  a  false- 
hood. Am  I  to  endure  that,  Cousin  Vane  ?" 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  do?"  sulkily. 

"If  that  insolent  servant  remains  in  this  house,  / 
shall  quit  it.  Insults  from  persons  of  that  class  are  not 
to  be  endured.  I  shall  not  remain  under  the  same  roof 
with  her.  My  mind  is  made  up." 

"  What  the  deuce  did  she  say  ?" 

"I  made  some  remark,  a  harmless  one,  of  corrse, 
about  her  mistress.  She  resented  it  at  once,  in  a  manner 
insolent  to  outrage.  She  said,"  the  words  coming 
sharply  between  Miss  Routh's  closed  teeth,  "  that  when 
'  Miss  Snowball* — ridiculous  name  ! — was  my  age,  she 
might  perhaps  be  as  '  set  like  and  settled.'  It  wasn't  to  be 
expected  " — Miss  Routh  grows  dramatic,  and  snuffles  in 
imitation  of  unfortunate  Jemima  Ann — '  that  a  gal  of 
nineteen  could  be  as  solid  and  prim  as  an — old  maid  T 
Those  were  her  odious  words  ;  she  did  not  mean  me  to 
hear  them,  but  I  did.  Do  as  you  please,  Vane,  but — if 
she  stays,  I  go." 

"  What  the — what's  the  use  of  losing  your  temper, 
Camilla !  You  know  she  will  go.  I  dislike  her  as 
much  as  you  do.  Say  no  more  about  it.  She  shall 
leave." 

"  Thanks,  dear  Vane."  Tears  fill  Camilla's  pale  eyes, 
she  presses  so  gratefully  the  arm  on  which  she  leans. 


ALL    IS    DARK.  359 

"I  am  foolishly  proud  and  sensitive,  I  know.     And  you 
are,  as  you  ever  were,  the  best  and  dearest  of  cousins." 

The  tall  colonel,  and  the  eau  de  Nil  robe,  are  away 
in  the  midst  of  the  orchids,  like  "  Love  among  the 
Roses,"  when  the  other  pair  enter.  Dolores"  clear  young 
laugh  greets  them — she  is  in  greater  beauty  than  ever, 
her  cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkling,  a  sort  of  reckless 
gayety  in  every  look  and  word.  Why  not?  She  has 
done  her  best  up  to  this  night,  and  her  best  is  a  signal 
failure.  Why  not  ?  Life's  roses  and  champagne  are 
here — why  not  take  her  share,  and  defy  the  fates  she  can 
not  propitiate  ?  She  has  made  shipwreck  of  her  life — 
the  ruin  looks  to  her  so  dire  to-night,  that  no  reckless 
act  of  her  own  can  ever  work  greater  woe.  A  fatal 
doctrine,  and  one  quite  foreign  to  all  the  instincts,  all 
the  training  of  her  life,  to  every  innocent  and  pure  im- 
pulse of  her  heart.  The  past  is  dead  and  done  with,  the 
future  is  hopeless,  the  present  is  a  dire  anguish  and  pain. 
Why  not  try  at  least  to  laugh  and  be  merry,  and  forget. 

"  I  have  put  my  days  and  dreams  out  of  mind — days 
that  are  over,  dreams  that  are  done,"  she  thinks,  with  a 
pang  of  cruelest  pain.  Colonel  Deering  looks  at  her  at 
least  with  human,  friendly  eyes — eyes  that  admire  and 
praise,  and  that  soothe.  One  grows  weary  of  the  stony 
stare  of  gorgons  after  awhile.  Colonel  Deering  is  agree- 
able, and  Miss  Routh  is  piqued.  Alas,  poor  Dolores  ! 
That  suffices  for  to-night.  But  when  it  is  all  over  pres- 
ently, and  the  Colonel,  m ore  deeply  epris  than  he  has  been 
for  many  a  day,  has  said  his  reluctant  good-night,  she  goes 
wearily  up  to  her  room,  trailing  her  sheeny  silk  and  lace 
as  though  it  weighed  her  down,  and  sinks  into  the  depths 
of  a  downy  chair,  with  a  long,  tired,  heart-sick  sigh. 

"  It  was  all  dismally  stupid,  Jemima  Ann,"  she  says  ; 
"  I  would  have  been  a  great  deal  happier  down  in  the 
snuggery  with  you." 

"  I  heerd  you  singin',  Miss  Snowball,"  Jemima  says, 
letting  down  the  long  hair.  "  I  hoped  you  was  enjoyin' 


360  ALL    IS    DARK, 

yourself.     But  I  see  easy  enough  you   do  look  jest  as 
white  and  wore  out  as " 

"Send  this  woman  away,  Lady  Valentine,"  says  an 
abrupt  voice,  "  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you."  It 
is  Sir  Vane,  forbidding  and  sullen. 

Jemima  Ann  gives  him  a  glance  of  unmistakable  fear 
and  aversion,  and  goes. 

"  Wait  in  the  dressing-room,"  says  the  sweet,  clear 
voice  of  her  mistress  ;  "  I  shall  want  you  again,  Jemima. 
Now,  then,  Sir  Vane  ?" 

She  looks  up  at  him  with  the  same  steadfast  glance  of 
a  few  hours  earlier.  If  it  must  be  war  to  the  knife,  she 
thinks,  is  she  to  be  blamed  for  trying  to  hold  her  own  ? 

"I  desire  you  to  dismiss  that  woman  !" 

"  I  have  dismissed  her.     We  are  alone." 

"  I  mean  out  of  the  house,  out  of  your  service.  Why 
do  you  pretend  to  misunderstand  ?  She  has  insulted  Miss 
Routh.  Her  presence  is  not  to  be  tolerated." 

"  I  am  sorry  if  she  has  insulted  any  one.  She  must 
have  been  very  greatly  provoked.  I  shall  speak  to  her 
about  it,  and  if  Miss  Routh  has  not  made  a  very  great 
mistake,  Jemima  Ann  will  apologize." 

"  I  want  no  apologies.  My  cousin  has  given  me  her 
ultimatum.  Either  your  maid  leaves  or  she  does." 

"That  would  be  a  pity — Valentine  without  Miss 
Routh — one  fails  to  imagine  it !  But  I  do  not  think  you 
need  be  seriously  alarmed  by  that  threat.  Believe  me, 
Miss  Routh  will  think  twice  before  she  quits  your 
bouse." 

"  We  do  not  require  your  beliefs.  I  have  not  come 
to  discuss  this  question,  or  to  ask  a  favor.  I  demand 
that  you  send  away  that  woman,  and  at  once." 

"  And  I  distinctly  refuse  !" 

"  Madam " 

"  Sir  Vane,"  she  says,  rising,  "  listen  to  me.  I  have 
borne  a  great  deal  since  I  became  your  wife.  I  have 
yielded  in  all  things  since  I  came  here,  to  your  sister  and 


ALL    IS    DARK.  361 

your  cousin,  for  the  sake  of  peace.  But  even  peace  may 
be  bought  too  dearly.  You  ask  too  much  to-night,  or 
rather  the  mistress  of  your  house,  Miss  Routh,  does  !" 

"  Lady  Valentine,"  furiously,  "  do  you  know  what 
you  say  ?  The  mistress  of  my  house  !  Take  care — take 
care  !  You  may  go  too  far  !" 

"  She  is  that,  is  she  not  ?"  his  wife  responds,  proudly, 
not  quailing,  standing  pale  and  erect.  "  You  do  not 
mean  to  imply  for  a  moment  that  /  am.  Jemima  will 
apologize  to  her  if  she  has  offended  her,  she  will  keep  as 
much  as  possible  for  the  future  out  of  her  way,  and  yours. 
More  than  that  I  cannot  promise.  She  is  my  one  friend, 
I  cannot  part  with  her.  I  cannot — I  will  not  !" 

"  By  Heaven,  you  shall !  Your  one  friend  !  And 
what  of  the  marble  cutter  in  Rome,  to  whom  you  were 
so  anxious  to  return  a  few  months  ago  ?  What  of  your 
new  lover  of  to-night  ?  Your  one  friend  ?  She  shall  go 
— I  swear  it — though  you  go  with  her  !" 

He  turns  from  the  room,  hoarse  with  passion,  and 
confronts  Jemima  in  the  dressing-room  door.  "  I  give 
you  warning,"  he  says  ;  "do  your  hear?  You  leave  this 
house,  and  at  once  !  Pack  up  and  go,  and,  until  you  are 
gone,  don't  let  me  have  to  look  at  you  again  !" 

"Oh,  Miss  Snowball!  dear  Miss  Snowball!"  gasps 
the  affrighted  Jemima,  "  what — whatever  have  I  done  ?" 

'•Nothing — that  is,  you  have  displeased  Miss  Routh, 
Sir  Vane  is  excited  to-night  ;  keep  out  of  his  sight  and 
hers  for  a  few  days,  until  this  storm  blows  over.  He 
will  forget  it — I  hope.  Go  to  your  room,  Jemima,  dear  ; 
I  shall  not  want  you  again." 

"And  you  will  not  send  me  away?  Oh,  my  own 
Miss  Snowball  !  how  could  I  live  away  from  you,  my 
own  dearest  dear  ?" 

"  And  I — oh  !"  the  girl  cries,  catching  her  breath  with 
a  sob,  "  what — what  have  I  left  in  all  this  world  but  you  ? 
No,  you  shall  not  go.  Leave  me  now — yes,  do,  please — 
16 


362  OH!    SERF  EN- T   HEART! 


\ 


I  would  rather.  Never  mind  my  hair  ;  I  will  twist  it 
up.  Good-night,  good-night." 

Jemima  goes,  crying  behind  her  apron.  Her  mistress 
locks  the  door,  and  drops  on  her  knees,  and  burying  her 
face  in  the  cushions  oi  her  chair,  "  Rene  !"  she  cries 
aloud,  "  Rene  !  Rene  !" 

His  name  breaks  from  her  lips  in  despite  of  herself. 
His  image  fills  her  heart  as  she  kneels  his  voice  is  in 
her  ears  ;  his  eyes  look  upon  her.  She  loves  him  !  she 
loves  him  !  In  shame,  in  misery,  in  remorse,  she  realizes 
in  this  wretched  hour,  how  utterly,  how  absolutely,  how 
sinfully. 

"  Rene !  Rene !"  For  this  she  gave  him  up,  her 
heart's  darling  !  for  this  man  she  resigned  the  heaven  on 
earth,  that  would  have  been  hers  as  his  wife.  Lower  and 
lower  she  seems  to  sink,  in  the  passion  of  impotent  long- 
ing, and  love,  and  regret  within  her.  Her  loose  hair 
falls  about  her  ;  great  sobs  tear  their  way  up  from  her 
heart  and  shake  her  from  head  to  foot  ;  the  velvet  is  wet 
with  her  raining  tears.  And  so,  while  the  dark  hours  of 
the  sighing  April  night  drag  away,  while  the  household 
sleeps,  Sir  Vane  Valentine's  wife  keeps  her  vigil  of  tears 
and  despair. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

"  OH  !     SERPENT     HEART     HID     WITH    A     FLOWERING 

FACE  !" 


ADY  VALENTINE,"  says  a  somber  voice, 
"be  good  enough  to  let  me  say  a  word  to 
you." 

Dolores,  leaning  over  the  wire  rail  that 
separates  one  of  the  stiff  Queen  Anne  gardens  from  the 
park,  turns  her  head  carelessly,  but  does  not  otherwise 


OH!    SERPENT   HEART!  363 

move.  She  holds  in  her  hands  a  great  bunch  of  garden 
roses  and  heliotrope.  Her  straw  hat  lies  on  the  grass 
beside  her,  her  glorious  hair  falls  in  its  old  unconstrained 
fashion,  rippling  down  her  back.  She  wears  a  crisp 
white  dress,  for  the  May  morning  is  warm  and  sunny, 
and  in  the  blue  ribbon  that  clasps  her  slim  waist,  is 
thrust  a  second  great  bunch  of  pink  and  purple  sweet- 
ness. In  this  muslin  dress,  with  all  that  feathery  hair, 
she  looks  so  girlish,  so  fair,  so  much  of  a  child,  that 
even  grim  Mistress  Dorothy  Valentine  pauses,  for 
a  moment,  struck  by  it  with  a  sort  of  pity  and  com- 
punction for  what  she  is  about  to  say.  Still  she  will 
say  it — that  way  duty  lies — and  Mistress  Dorothy  would 
march  up  to  the  stake  and  be  broiled  alive,  sooner  than 
forego  one  jot  or  tittle  of  duty.  It  is  mid  forenoon — 
eleven  o'clock — and  these  two  ladies  seem  to  have  the 
place  to  themselves.  Sir  Vane  and  Miss  Routh  are  ex- 
ceptionally lazy  people,  and  rarely  appear  before 
luncheon,  to  the  silent  exasperation  of  Miss  Valentine. 
To  her  silent  exasperation,  for  whatever  she  may  be 
nominally,  she  is  no  more  mistress  of  the  house  than  is 
Sir  Vane's  wife.  She  stands  in  very  considerable  awe  of 
the  baronet,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  of  Cousin 
Camilla  also. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Valentine,"  my  lady  responds, 
going  back  to  her  roses  ;  "  yes — say  on."  But  the  ease 
of  manner  is  but  surface  deep,  an  impatient  sense  of 
pain  and  irritation  fills  her.  Can  she  never  be  free, 
morning,  noon,  nor  night  ?  Is  she  to  be  nagged  at, 
girded  at,  taken  to  task,  on  all  sides  ?  What  is  her 
crime  now  ?  Miss  Valentine  wears  the  expression  of 
the  judge  ©n  the  bench,  at  the  moment  of  rising  and 
putting  on  the  black  cap. 

"  And  the  sentence  of  the  court  is,  that  you  be  taken 
hence,  and  hanged  by  the  neck  until  you  are  dead," 
thinks  Dolores,  filled  with  dismal  apprehensions.  "I 
wish  they  would — it  would  shorten  the  misery,  and  not 


364  OH!    SERPENT  HEART! 

hurt  half  so  much  as  this  perpetual  fault-finding  from 
dawn  till  dark." 

"  Lady  Valentine,"  resumes  the  somber  voice,  "  do 
you  know  how  many  days  it  is  since  you  met  Colonel 
Deering  first  ?" 

"  Oh-h  !"  thinks  the  culprit,  "  that  is  the  indictment." 
Aloud.  "  No,  Miss  Dorothy,  I  do  not.  I  take  no  note  of 
time.  In  this  house  the  days  fly  on  such  rosy  wings,  that 
they  come  and  go  before  I  am  aware  of  them.  And  I 
never  could  count  worth  a  cent,  as  they  say  over  in 
my  country.  You  are  more  correctly  informed,  no 
doubt.  How  many  is  it  ?"  It  ic  a  flippant  speech  ;  it  is 
meant  to  be  so.  She  is  stung,  reckless,  at  bay.  Miss 
Valentine  looks  and  feels  unaffectedly  shocked.  She  ad- 
justs her  spectacles  more  firmly  on  her  polished  aquiline 
nose,  with  its  shining  knob  in  the  middle,  and  regards 
her  young  sister-in-law  through  them,  with  strong  and 
stony  disapproval. 

"  You  take  this  tone  with  me,  and  on  such  a  subject  ? 
Dolores,  I  felt  inclined  to  be  sorry  for  you,  a  moment 

ago,  you  looked  so  young,  so "  Miss  Valentine  clears 

her  throat,  "so  child-like,  I  may  say,  so  almost  irrespon- 
sible. If  you  answer  me  like  this,  I  shall  regret  what  I 
am  obliged  to  say  no  longer.  It  is  precisely  nine  days, 
then,  since  Colonel  Deering  first  saw  you  in  this  house, 
and  in  those  nine  days  how  often,  may  I  ask,  have  you 
and  he  met?" 

"  You  may  ask,  but  I  doubt  if  I  can  answer  ;"  her  tone 
is  still  light,  but  a  deep  flush  has  risen  to  her  cheek.  A 
flush  of  conscious  guilt,  it  looks  to  Dorothy  Valentine,  of 
impotent  anger  in  reality.  "  Let  me  see.  That  night, 
next  day  out  riding,  the  following  evening  at  Broughton 
Hall,  yesterday  at  the  rectory — oh  !  I  really  cannot  re- 
member, but  quite  frequently.  Why  ?"  She  looks  up 
with  an  innocence,  an  unconsciousness,  so  deliciously 
naive  and  true  to  life,  that  the  exasperated  spinster  tingles 
to  box  her  ears. 


OH!    SERPENT  HEART!  365 

"Why?  You  ask  that!  Lady  Valentine,  you  are 
playing  with  me,  with  the  truth.  There  is  not  a  day  of 
those  nine  days  you  have  not  met  Colonel  Deering  in 
your  rides.  Do  not  attempt  to  deny  it." 

"Why  should  I  deny  it  ?"  The  blue  eyes  meet  the 
stern  lunettes  with  a  quick,  fiery  flash.  "  I  have  met  Col- 
onel Deering  daily  in  my  rides.  And  what  then  ?" 

Something  in  her  look,  in  her  challenging  tone,  dis- 
concerts her  inquisitor.  Miss  Dorothy  clears  her  husky 
throat  before  speaking  again.  "  If  my  brother  knew," 
she  is  beginning. 

"  What  ?  has  not  Riddle,  the  groom,  his  spy,  told 
him  ?  That  is  strange.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  was 
his  mission,  and  thought  it  such  a  pity  he  should  have 
nothing  to  tell  for  all  his  trouble.  I  believe  I  allowed 
the  colonel  to  escort  me  for  the  very  purpose.  And  he 
really  only  has  told  you  ?  Now,  I  wondered  Sir  Vane 
had  not  taken  me  to  'task.  However,  it  is  not  too  late. 
You  can  inform  him  at  any  time." 

"  Child,  what  do  you  mean  ?  What  an  extraordinary 
tone  you  take — what  extraordinary  things  you  say.  Are 
you  altogether  reckless — altogether  mad  ?" 

"  Another  difficult  question  to  answer.  I  sometimes 
wonder  I  do  not  go  mad  under  all  I  have  to  endure.  Oh, 
Miss  Valentine,  leave  me  alone.  It  is  a  pity  to  waste 
your  time  scolding  me,  when  you  may  be  so  much  more 
usefully  employed  over  your  account  books,  and  tracts 
for  the  poor.  I  have  not  been  brought  up  properly,  you 
see — no  one  ever  found  fault  with  me  in  my  life  until  I 
was  married.  Since  then  there  has  been  nothing  but 
fault-finding,  and  that  sort  of  thing  does  not  seem  to 
agree  with  me.  I  never  could  assimilate  bitter  medicine. 
Reckless  !  Yes,  I  am  that !  Leave  me  alone,  Miss  Dor- 
othy ;  you,  at  least,  have  no  right  to  insult  me.  Do  you 
think,"  turning  on  her  with  sudden,  hot  passion — "do 
you  dare  to  think  I  am  in  love  with  Colonel  Deering  ?" 

"  Dolores — no  !     I  never  thought  so.     You  are  fool- 


366  OH!    SERPENT   HEART  I 

ish,  hot-tempered,  impulsive  to  rashness,  but  a  flirt,  a 
married  coquette — no  !  Do  not  look  at  me  with  such 
fiery  eyes,  child.  I  am  sorry  for  you — I  mean  this  for 
your  good.  You  are  unhappy — I  see  that,  arfci  I  regret 
it.  I  may  seem  stern  to  you.  I  cannot  pet  you  as  your 
grandmother  used,  but  I  like  you — yes,  I  honestly  like 
you,  and  believe,  with  judicious  training,  you  have  it  in 
you  to  be  a  noble  woman — an  excellent  wife." 

Dolores  laughs — a  sad,  incredulous  little  laugh 
enough.  "  Thank  you,  Miss  Dorothy.  And  this  is  your 
idea  of  judicious  training.  Well,  such  a  wretch  as  I  am 
should  be  thankful  for  even  small  mercies.  And  you 
like  me  !  Now,  I  confess,"  with  a  second  short,  bitter 
laugh,  "I  should  never  have  found  that  out.  If  I  am  not 
in  love  with  this  dashing  and  dangerous  heavy  dragoon, 
where  is  the  guilt  of  an  accidental  meeting?" 

"  They  are  not  accidental,  Lady  Valentine,"  solemnly  ; 
"no,  do  not  fire  up  again — hear  me  out — on  his  part,  I 
mean.  You  are  not  in  love  with  him,  but  he  fell  in  love 
with  you  the  first  time  he  ever  saw  you." 

"  Indeed  !"  There  is  something  so  suddenly  funny 
in  the  grim  Dorothy's  perspicacity  on  this  tender  point, 
that  she  laughs  outright  through  the  passionate  tears 
that  fill  her  eyes. 

"  You  have  an  eagle  glance,  Miss  Valentine." 

"  I  have,"  with  increased  solemnity  ;  "I  watched  him 
that  evening.  He  looked  at  you,  and  at  no  one  but  you, 
from  the  moment  you  came  into  the  room.  He  left 
Camilla  Routh,  and  lingered  by  your  side,  like  the  most 
devoted  lover,  all  the  rest  of  the  time." 

"Ah  !"  exclaims  Dolores,  "  now  we  come  to  the  head 
and  front  of  my  offending  !  He  deserted  Camilla  Routh 
for  me  !  Yes,  and  I  meant  that  he  should  !  Her  motto 
is  '  Slay,  and  spare  not ' — I  made  it  mine  for  that  once. 
And  I  won,  Miss  Valentine.  There  would  have  been  no 
fault  found,  if  I  had  failed — if  Miss  Routh  could  have 
kept  her  captive." 


OH!    SERPENT  HEART  1  367 

"  That  is  beside  the  question.  Camilla  Routh  is 
single — you  are  a  married  woman " 

"  Helas .'"  sighs  Dolores,  under  her  breath,  but  the 
other  hears. 

"  Do  not  make  me  think  you  wicked  as  well  as  weak," 
she  says,  harshly.  "  You  are  married  ;  you  have  nothing 
to  do  with  Colonel  Deering,  or  any  other  man.  You  will 
be  talked  about — you  are  being  talked  about  already. 
My  brother  has  not  yet  overheard — you  can  imagine  how 
he  will  feel  when  he  does." 

"  Ah  !  I  can  imagine.  I  have  seen  Sir  Vane  in  most 
of  his  moods  and  tenses.  Does  it  ever  occur  to  him — to 
you — that  I  may  feel  too  ?  I  am  not  in  love  with  your 
brother,"  cries  Dolores,  now  utterly  and  altogether  reck- 
less, "but  I  am  his  wife.  Do  you  think  his  very  pro- 
nounced devotion  to  Miss  Routh  is  an  edifying  or  agree- 
able sight?"  Miss  Valentine  winces — the  ground  is  sud- 
denly cut  away  from  under  her  feet.  She  takes  off  her 
spectacles,  and  wipes  them,  and  clears  her  throat,  and  is 
silent.  "  You  say  nothing,  Miss  Dorothy.  You  do  well. 
It  is  a  poor  rule  that  will  not  work  both  ways.  But  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  You  may  mean  well — 
kindly — I  do  not  know.  This  I  will  say.  I  met  Colonel 
Deering  first  in  my  husband's  house.  I  infer  then  he  is 
a  gentleman,  and  I  may  know  him.  I  have  met  him  in 
my  daily  rides,  purely  by  accident,  on  my  part  at  least, 
and  he  has  been  agreeable  and  courteous  as  any  gentle- 
man may  be  to  his  friend's  wife — no  more.  I  am  no 
coquette,  I  never  will  be,  please  Heaven — not  for  your 
brother's  sake,  understand,  Miss  Valentine — for  my  own. 
And  now  what  is  it  you  will  have  me  do?  Give  up  my 
daily  ride  altogether  ?  I  will  do  it  if  you  say  so." 

"  1  think  it  will  be  well,  for  the  present,"  responds 
Miss  Valentine,  more  softly.  "Caesar's  wife  should 
be " 

"  Oh  !"  cries  impatient  Dolores,  "  do  not  quote  that, 
I  beg  !  Caesar's  wife !  If  she  was  not  above  reproach 


368  OH!    SERPENT   HEART! 

for  her  own  womanly  pride's  sake,  for  her  own  soul's 
sake,  why  should  she  be  for  Caesar,  or  any  other  man  ? 
No  doubt  Caesar  amused  himself  well  in  his  own  way. 
Had  he  a  cousin,  I  wonder,  with  green  eyes,  like  a  cat  ? 
Is  my  lecture  over,  Miss  Valentine  ?"  wearily  ;  "  there  is 
the  sweet  Camilla  beaming  on  us  through  the  window, 
in  India  muslin  and  pink'  ribbons.  Colonel  Deering 
comes  to  breakfast,  by  the  bye,  does  he  not  ?  If  you  have 
quite  said  your  say,  I  will  go  in." 

"  You  are  a  strange  young  woman,  Dolores,"  says 
Miss  Valentine,  looking  at  the  flushed,  fair  face,  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger.  "  I  think  it  is  a  pity  you  married 
Vane." 

"  So  do  I.  Oh  !  Man  Dieuf  the  girl  cries  out,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  with  sudden  passionate  despair.  "  So  do 
I.  A  p-ity,  a  pity,  a  pity  !" 

"  What  I  mean  is,"  says  Miss  Dorothy,  half  alarmed, 
half  angered,  "  that  there  is  an — hem — incompatibility  of 
temper,  of  age,  of  thought,  of " 

"  Heart,  soul,  mind — yes,  everything.  It  has  been  a 
deadly,  desperate  mistake — who  should  know  that  better 
than  I  ?  Here  is  your  bete  noir  coming,  Miss  Valentine, 
singing,  too,  as  though  no  guilty  passion  for  a  married 
woman  consumed  him.  Until  we  meet  at  table,  then,  au 
revoir.  I  fly  before  the  wolf."  She  laughs  as  she  goes. 
Colonel  Deering,  sauntering  up  the  path,  switching  the 
flowers,  and  singing  to  himself  as  he  saunters,  sees  the 
white  flying  figure  with  the  amber  hair,  and  grim  Dor- 
othy Valentine  blocking  up  the  path  like  any  other 
dragon,  guarding  an  enchanted  and  enchanting  princess. 
He  smiles  to  himself,  and  uplifts  his  fine  tenor  voice  a 
little  for  Miss  Dorothy's  benefit.  These  are,  to  Misa 
Dorothy's  suspicious  ears,  the  sinister  words  he  sings  : 

"  *  I  will  gather  thee,'  he  cried, 

'  Rosebud,  brightly  blowing.' 
'  Then  I'll  sting  thee,'  it  replied, 
*  And  you'll  quickly  start  aside. 


OH!    SERPENT   HEART!  369 

With  the  prickle  glowing.' 

Rosebud,  rosebud,  rosebud,  red, 
Rosebud  brightly  blowing." 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Valentine  ?"  says  this  au- 
dacious dragoon,  cheerily.  "  I  am  not  behind  time,  I 
hope?  You  look  as  if  you  might  be  waiting."  He  takes 
of?  his  hat,  bows  to  Miss  Routh  at  her  window,  and  goes 
with  Miss  Valentine  into  the  house.  Everything  that 
there  is  of  the  most  chilling  and  austere  is  Miss  Valen- 
tine's greeting,  but  Miss  Routh  amply  makes  up  for  all 
that,  by  the  warmth  and  cordiality  of  hers.  Sir  Vane, 
too,  seems  a  shade  less  sour  than  usual,  which  fact  is  ac- 
counted lor  by  some  letters  lying  near  his  plate,  inform- 
ing him  of  a  marked  increase  in  the  yield  of  certain 
Cornish  coal-mines  that  have  been  rather  unproductive 
lately.  "  I  must  run  down  to  Flintbarrow,"  he  says,  ''  and 
see  about  it,  presently.  A  little  fortune  lies  in  these 
mines,  properly  worked.  I  shall  attend  to  it  at  once." 

"  Not  quite  at  once,  I  hope,  Vane,"  says  Camilla, 
"  there  is  Lady  Ratherripe's  ball,  to-morrow  night.  You 
must  not  miss  that." 

"  I  don't  greatly  care  for  balls;  still,  as  we  have  ac- 
cepted— yes,  I  will  stay  and  run  down  the  following  day. 
I  may  be  detained  some  time  in  Cornwall  ;"  taking  up 
his  letters  again.  "Challoner  speaks  glowingly  of  what 
can  be  done,  with  very  little  expenditure,  either." 

"  I  petition  for  to-morrow  night's  first  waltzes,  now," 
says  the  colonel.  "  Miss  Routh,  you  have  already  prom- 
ised. Lady  Valentine " 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  go,"  indifferently. 

"  Not  go  ?"  Sir  Vane  looks  sharply  up.  "  And  offend 
Lady  Ratherripe  !  Nonsense,  Dolores.  Certainly  you 
will  go." 

"  Then  may  I  entreat " 

"I  shall  not  dance,"  brusquely  ;  "at  least,  I  do  not 
trrink  I  shall.  And  I  never  pledge  myself  ahead  of  time. 
l/nto  the  day,  the  day."  Colonel  Deering's  dark,  bright 
16* 


370  OH!    SERPENT   HEART! 

eyes  look  across  and  regard  her  for  a  moment.  Some- 
thing wrong,  he  sees.  Have  these  confounded  old 
rnaids  been  nagging  at  her  ?  They  both  look  as  if  they 
could  nag  with  a  vengeance,  by  Jove !  She  must  lead 
the  deuce  and  all  of  a  life  in  this  dull  old  house,  with 
these  three  old  women  !  Poor  girl ' — what  a  casting  of 
pearls  before  swine,  when  she  was  given  to  this  latter- 
day  Othello.  And  the  dry,  elderly  prig  is  in  love  with 
this  middle-aged,  simpering,  insipid  Miss  Routh.  In 
this  disrespectful  way  does  the  gallant  colonel  stigma- 
tize the  blonde  Camilla,  and  the  dignified  baronet.  He 
has  decidedly  lost  his  head  over  Sir  Vane's  fair  girl- 
bride,  but  he  has  sense  enough  to  leave  her  alone  just 
now,  and  devote  himself  to  Miss  Routh.  He  will  meet 
her  at  the  ball,  and  have  these  waltzes,  or  fail  where  he 
wishes  to  win  for  the  first  time. 

The  night  comes.  Sir  Vane  and  Lady  Valentine  are 
there.  And  Dolores  is  lovely.  She  wears  white  taffetas, 
embroidered  in  silver,  diamonds  and  lilies  of  the  valley 
in  her  hair,  a  collar  of  diamonds,  with  a  great  star-like 
pendant,  clasping  the  slender  throat,  lilies  of  the  valley 
everywhere  about  her.  She  is  a  glittering,  bride-like 
figure,  looking  almost  unreal  in  her  extreme  fairness 
and  translucent  robes.  People  stand,  and  look,  and 
admire — audibly  even  ;  introductions  are  demanded. 
She  is  a  bride  and  a  beauty,  and,  beyond  compare,  the 
fairest  of  all  the  fair  women  in  the  rooms.  There  is 
something  almost  dramatic  about  this  dazzling  last  ap- 
pearanc- — it  is  commented  on  afterward.  For  it  is  the 
last  time — the  first  for  many,  the  very  last  time  for  all, 
that  they  ever  see  her  thus.  She  has  flashed  upon  them 
like  a  meteor,  to  vanish  after  into  outer  darkness  and  be 
seen  no  more  ! 

Some  feeling — not  of  course  that  it  will  be  so,  but 
some  instinct  that  it  will  be  well  to  take  the  goods  that 
the  gods  provide,  and  enjoy  herself  if  she  can,  comes  to 
her  as  she  stands  here,  the  center  of  many  eyes.  She 


OH!    SERPENT   HEART!  371 

has  not  desired  to  come,  her  husband  has  angrily  insisted  ; 
she  has  not  wished  to  dance,  he  has  irritably  told  her  not 
to  be  an  idiot,  not  to  attract  attention,  to  do  as  others  do. 
Very  well — she  will  take  him  at  his  word.  It  is  a  wife's 
duty  to  obey.  Colonel  Deering  scribbles  his  name  on 
her  tablets  many  times — there  are  dozens  of  aspirants — 
she  might  dance  every  dance  three  times  over  if  she 
chose. 

She  is  only  a  girl — and  the  music  sets  every  young 
nerve  tingling.  Colonel  Deering  is  past-master  of  the 
art  of  waltzing,  and  she  floats  like  a  fairy  or  a  French 
girl.  She  floats — a  dazzling  creature — all  silvery  taffetas, 
flashing  diamonds,  fragrant  lilies,  golden  hair,  and  blue, 
blue  eyes.  Colonel  Deering  is  not  the  only  man  con- 
quered to-night — she  might  count  almost  as  many  cap- 
tives as  names  on  her  tablets.  But  she  thinks  nothing 
about  it,  or  them  ;  they  are  her  partners  in  the  dance,  one 
the  same  as  another.  Life  holds  some  bright  moments 
still,  when  one  may  laugh  and  forget,  even  though  it  be 
spoiled  as  a  whole. 

The  Valentine  ladies  are  all  three  there,  the  stony 
Dorothy  as  Medusa-like  as  ever,  looking  grimly  at  all 
this  foolish  gyrating  disapprovingly  through  her  spec- 
tacles. She  disapproves  of  her  sister-in-law  most  of  all, 
of  this  glamour,  this  dazzle  of  uncanny  beauty — this 
flashing  sort  of  radiance  fit  to  turn  the  heads  of  all  these 
frivolous  men.  What  does  she  mean  by  it  ?  She  is  only 
a  pretty,  fair-haired  girl  on  ordinary  occasions — she  is  a 
beauty  to-night !  And  Colonel  Deering's  infatuation  is 
distinctly  indecent — is  atrocious  !  He  takes  no  pains  to 
hide  it ;  it  looks  out  of  his  bold  black  eyes  for  all  the 
world  to  read.  It  is  altogether  wrong,  and  to  be  repro- 
bated, and  she  hopes  that  Vane She  looks  round  for 

Vane  ;  he  is  just  quitting  the  ball-room,  with  Camilla 
Routh  on  his  arm.  And  Camilla  Routh's  face  wears  a 
look  Dorothy  Valentine  knows  very  well,  and  has 
quailed  before  very  often,  strong-minded  vestal  that  she 


372  OH!    SERPENT   HEART! 

is.  The  green  eyes  burn  with  a  baleful  glow  ;  jealousy, 
hatred,  rage — many  evil  passions  look  out  of  them  as 
they  glitter  on  her  cousin's  wife.  His  two  duty  dances 
over,  Colonel  Deering  has  not  once  come  near  her,  and 
even  during  those  duty  dances  his  eyes  were  with  his 
heart,  following  his  neighbor's  wife.  And  Miss  Routh's 
impotent  jealous  fury  is  not  to  be  put  in  words. 

"  Take  me  out  of  this  room,  Vane,"  she  says,  almost 
in  a  gasp,  "  I  stifle  in  it.  Take  me  out  of  the  sight  of 
your  wife." 

"My  wife  is  not  here,"  says  Sir  Vane,  looking  round. 

"  Nor  Algernon  Deering  !"  she  cries,  with  repressed 
passion.  "  No  doubt  they  are  happy  somewhere  together. 
Take  me  out  on  the  balcony — the  heat  here  is  unendur- 
able." 

He  does  as  he  is  told — together  they  go  out  on  the  bal 
cony.  The  ball-room  windows  give  on  it,  and  they  stand 
under  the  stars,  the  cool  wind  of  the  May  night  blowing 
upon  them,  tall  pots  of  flowering  shrubs  on  every  hand. 
"  You  will  catch  cold,"  he  says  ;  "  I  will  go  and  get  you 
a  wrap." 

"  I  wish,"  she  answers,  between  her  set  teeth,  "  I  could 
catch  my  death  !  Better  be  dead  than  alive — a  miserable, 
neglected,  disappointed  woman  !" 

Sir  Vane  stands  silent.  He  has  been  through  this 
sort  of  thing  before,  and  does  not  like  it.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Camilla?"  he  asks,  sulkily.  "What  is 
wrong  now?" 

"  Do  you  ask  !"  she  cries,  panting — "you,  for  whom  I 
have  wasted  my  life,  for  whose  sake  I  have  grown  into 
what  your  wife's  odious  servant  calls  me — an  old  maid  !" 
He  stands  with  folded  arms,  and  gazes  moodily  before 
him  at  the  dark,  star-lit  stretch  of  garden  and  lawn. 
"  You  are  but  a  poor  creature,  after  all,  Sir  Vane  Valen- 
tine !  You  ordered  this  woman  to  go,  and  she  defies  you 
to  your  face — she  and  your  wife  !  She  is  at  Valentine 
still,  and  means  to  stay " 


OH!    SERPENT    HEART!  373 

"She  shall  not  stay,"  sullenly,  "  she  will  go.  I  have 
said  it,  and  I  keep  my  word." 

"And  to-night,"  goes  on  Miss  Routh,  still  in  that  tense 
tone  of  fierce  anger,  "  did  you  watch  your  wife  to-night  ? 
She  has  been  with  Colonel  Deering  the  whole  evening  ; 
her  conduct  has  been  scandalous — you  hear? — scandal- 
ous !  For  me — but  what  does  it  matter  for  me  ?  I  gave 
up  my  girlhood — my  youth — to  waiting  for  you.  You 
were  my  lover  ;  you  were  to  return  to  marry  me  ;  you 
made  me  swear — almost — to  be  true  to  you.  And  I  kept 
my  word — fool,  fool  that  I  was  !  How  did  you  keep 
yours,  Vane  Valentine?  You  returned  with  a  bride  of 
nineteen,  and  I  and  my  years  of  weary  waiting  were  for- 
gotten— forgotten — forgotten  !" 

"  Not  forgotten,  Camilla — never  forgotten!  By  my 
sacred  honor,  no  !  I  loved  you  then — only  you  !  I  love 
you  still — you  alone  !  She  is  younger — fairer,  it  may  be, 
than  you,  but  not  in  my  eyes — I  swear  it !  You  are  the 
one  woman  in  all  the  world  I  have  ever  wished  for  my 
own  !  You  know  why  I  married  her — why  I  was  forced 
to  marry  her,  -with  no  love  on  either  side.  By  all  my 
hopes,  if  I  were  free  to-night,  I  would  marry  you  to- 
morrow !" 

There  is  no  one  to  hear  this  impassioned  speech;  they 
stand  quite  alone  on  the  balcony — this  modern,  middle- 
aged  Romeo  and  Juliet — with  the  peaceful  stars  looking 
down,  and  the  tall  acacias  and  syringas  screening  them. 
Cautious  even  in  her  excess,  Miss  Routh  looks  round  to 
make  sure.  But  though  Miss  Routh's  eyes  are  as  sharp 
as  that  of  any  other  cat  in  the  dark,  they  cannot  pierce 
the  satin  draperies  of  the  open  French  window,  where, 
enjoying  the  cool  freshness  of  the  night,  a  lady  and  gen- 
tleman stand.  And  the  gentleman  is  Colonel  Deering, 
and  the  lady  is  Dolores — Lady  Valentine. 

They  hear  every  word;  they  see  Camilla  Routh  drawn, 
naif  reluctant,  half  yielding,  into  a  quick  embrace.  They 
have  had  no  time  to  fly,  it  has  all  been  so  rapid.  Colonel 


374  OH!    SERPENT  HEART! 

Deering  starts  up,  honestly  shocked  for  her  sake.  For 
her — is  she  in  a  trance  of  white  horror,  that  she  stands 
frozen  here,  looking,  and,  for  the  moment,  feeling  abso- 
lutely unable  to  stir.  "  There  are  times  when  I  hate  her," 
Vane  Valentine  is  saying,  and  no  one  can  hear  his  stri- 
dent voice  and  disbelieve,  "  since  she  stands  between  me 
and  you.  I  love  you,  Camilla  !  I  could  not  bear  my  life 
if  I  lost  you  !" 

"  Shall  we  go,  Lady  Valentine  ?"  says  Colonel  Deer- 
ing  in  a  smothered  voice.  It  is  growing  too  much  even 
for  him,  and  the  stone-white  face  of  his  companion 
frightens  him.  He  touches  the  gloved  hand  on  his  arm, 
and  it  is  like  ice.  She  does  not  seem  to  hear  him;  she 
looks  as  though  she  were  stunned  into  a  trance  by  the 
atrocious  words  that  fall  on  her  ear.  "  Lady  Valentine," 
he  gently  repeats,  and  draws  her  with  him  back  from  the 
window. 

The  motion  awakes  her;  she  looks  at  him  with  two 
dull,  blind  eyes — eyes  that  see,  but,  for  the  moment,  do 
not  seem  to  know  his  face. 

"Shall  we  go  back,  Lady  Valentine?"  he  asks,  still 
very  gently,  motioning  toward  the  brilliant  ball-room. 
And  then  she  seems  to  come  back  with  a  shock  from  that 
stunned  torpor  into  which  her  husband's  brutal  words 
have  struck  her.  "  Do  come,"  he  says,  uneasily  ;  "you 
are  cold  ;  you  are  whiter  than  your  dress." 

"  Come  ?"  she  repeats  ;  "  where  ?  Oh,  back  there," 
with  a  gesture  of  indescribable  repulsion.  "  No  ;  not  yet. 
Leave  me  alone,  Colonel  Deering,  I  like  it  best  here." 
There  is  that  in  her  face  that  compels  him  to  obey.  He 
goes,  but  reluctantly,  slowly,  and  looking  back.  Of  all 
the  unutterable  asses  it  ever  has  been  his  fortune  to  meet, 
commend  him  to  this  pig-headed  baronet,  he  thinks. 
The  music  of  the  Strauss  waltz  floats  to  her — a  sigh  in 
its  gay  sweetness.  She  stand  alone,  and  looks  out  at 
the  stars,  at  the  tall  plants,  at  the  balcony,  deserted  now. 


TIRED    OUT.  375 

A  marble  goddess  v,  beside  her  ;  the  chill,  pale  gleam  of 
the  stone  face  is  scarcely  stiller  or  paler  than  the  Jiving 
one.  She  has  rrs,^  the  whole  truth — at  last ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII.  , 

OUT  WE  ARE,  MY  HEART  AND  I." 

1'  is  the  afternoon  of  another  day — two  days 
later.  My  lady's  carriage  waits  before  the 
stately  portico  of  Manor  Valentine,  and  my 
lady  herself,  in  silk  attire,  comes  down  the 
broad  stone  steps.  Miss  Routh  follows,  Miss  Valentine 
last  of  all,  in  a  stiff,  rustling  moire  of  melancholy,  dead- 
leaf  tint,  and  ail  three  enter  the  carriage.  Sundry  boxes 
and  parcels  are  stowed  away.  Miss  Routh's  maid  as 
cends  the  rumble,  and  Miss  Routh  is  in  a  state  to  be  best 
described  by  the  undignified  word  "  fuss,"  lest  any  of  her 
belongings  be  left  behind. 

"  Are  you  sure  everything  is  here,  Partlett  ?"  to  her 
maid;  "are  you  certain  the  gray  wig,  the  apron,  the 
shoes,  are  all  packed  ?  I  suppose  your  maid  has  attended 
to  your  things,  Lady  Valentine?"  rather  sharply.  "She 
looks  stupid  enough  to  have  forgotten  ;  and  it  will  be 
rather  awkward  at  the  last  moment  if  any  necessary 
article  is  forgotten.  You  are  not  asleep,  I  hope  ?"  more 
sharply  still. 

"I  am  not  asleep,  Miss  Routh;  I  hear.  I  presume 
Jemima  has  attended.  I  have  not  looked.  I  dare  say 
the  dress  and  adjuncts  are  all  right."  She  answers 
coldly  ;  she  does  not  look  at  Miss  Routh  as  she  speaks; 
she  does  not  lock  at  Sir  Vane,  standing,  hat  in  hand,  on 
the  steps.  She  looks  out  of  the  opposite  window  so  list- 
lessly as  to  give  Miss  Routh  some  grounds  for  her  query 
whether  she  is  asleep. 


376  TIRED    QUT. 

"  And  you  really  will  not  come,  Vane  ?"  Camilla  says. 
"Well,  of  course,  if  you  must  hurry  down  to  Cornwall, 
you  must.  Business  before  pleasure,  I  suppose,  though 
it  is  an  odious  motto,  and  one  you  need  never  subscribe 
to.  It  seems  a  pity  to  miss  the  private  theatricals,  and  not 
to  see  Lady  Valentine  as  the  peerless  Pauline.  Colonel 
Deering  will  play  the  love-struck  Melnotte  con  amore,  no 
cfcubt.  Love-making  under  false  colors  is  rather  in  his 
line,  on  the  stage,  and  off.  Well,  good-by  ;  I  shall  write 
you  a  full  and  detailed  account  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons, 
and  her  goings  on." 

"  Good-by,  Brother  Vane,"  says,  austerely,  Miss  Dor- 
othy. "  Do  not  overwork  yourself  about  those  mines. 
When  may  we  expect  you  home  ?" 

"  Do  not  know — not  for  weeks,  it  may  be.  I  shall  ex- 
pect an  exhaustive  detail  of  all  that  goes  on,  Camilla." 
He  glances  at  his  wife  as  he  says  it.  "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  Miss  Routh  and  Miss  Valentine  simul- 
taneously answer.  His  wife  alone  sits  silent.  She  bows 
slightly  in  adieu,  but  even  this  without  lifting  her  eyes  to 
his  face. 

"  Humph  !"  says  Miss  Valentine,  sharply,  "you  do 
not  bid  your  husband  farewell,  Lady  Valentine."  She 
makes  no  motion,  no  answer.  She  might  be  deaf  as  she 
sits  there,  for  all  sign  she  gives.  She  is  pale  ;  dark 
shadows  encircle  her  eyes ;  those  blue  eyes  look  singu- 
larly large  and  somber  in  her  small,  colorless  face. 
"Humph!"  says  Miss  Valentine  again,  and  glances  at 
Camilla  Routh.  Something  is  wrong,  very  wrong,  grow- 
ing more  and  more  wrong  every  day,  and  very  likely 
Cousin  Camilla  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  Her  thin  lips  wear 
a  faint  smile  at  this  moment,  that  Dorothy  Valentine 
knows  of  old,  and  distrusts.  She  gives  it  up,  and  the  trio 
sit  in  perfect  silence,  while  the  carriage  bowls  over  the 
high-road  in  the  direction  of  Broughton  Hall. 

Broughton  Hall,  the  family  seat,  where  boyish  Harry 
Broughton  reigns  lord  of  the  land,  is  eleven  miles  from 


TIRED    OUT.  377 

the  manor-house,  and  is  at  present  in  a  state  of  internal 
commotion  over  sundry  private  theatricals,  to  come  off 
presently,  under  the  auspices  of  Mrs.  Broughton  and 
Colonel  Deering.  The  "  Lady  of  Lyons  "  is,  as  usual,  the 
play  to  be  done,  and  Lady  Valentine  has  been  chosen  by 
acclaim  as  the  Pauline  of  the  piece.  Whether  she  pos- 
sesses the  slightest  histrionic  ability  is  altogether  a  sec- 
ondary matter — she  is  the  prettiest  woman  in  the  county, 
she  is  a  bride  and  a  stranger,  and  young  Harry  Brough- 
ton was  beside  himself  with  love  for  her  ever  since  he 
saw  her  first — three  incontrovertible  reasons.  He  burns 
to  play  the  Claude  to  her  Pauline,  but  extreme  youth,  a 
bad  memory,  and  some  boyish  diffidence,  stand  in  his 
way.  Colonel  Deering,  an  old  hand  at  the  business,  and 
troubled  with  none  of  these  drawbacks,  does  Claude, 
instead. 

Of  course  the  usual  trouble  and  heart-burnings  have 
obtained  over  the  cast,  but  all  is  settled,  more  or  less 
satisfactorily,  the  rehearsals  are  well  over,  and  to-night 
is  the  night  big  with  fate.  The  ladies  of  Manor  Valen- 
tine are  not  to  return  until  to-morrow.  The  drama  is  to 
be  followed  by  a  dance.  Miss  Routh  has  been  cast  for 
the  Widow  Melnotte,  which  part  she  intends  to  dress  in 
pearl-gray  silk,  and  a  point-lace  cap  and  apron — not  ex- 
actly perhaps  in  keeping  with  that  elderly  person's  station 
in  life,  but  decidedly  becoming  to  Miss  Routh.  And  it 
will  enable  her  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  fascinat- 
ing Claude  and  the  too-trusting  Pauline. 

The  eleven  miles  are  done  in  profound  silence — three 
Carmelite  nuns  vowed  to  life-long  speechlessness  could 
not  have  kept  it  more  rigidly.  The  two  actresses  study 
their  part ;  Miss  Valentine  studies  them  through  her  spec- 
tacles with  a  severe  cast  of  countenance.  She  disapproves 
of  them  both.  The  May  sun  is  setting  as  they  drive  up 
the  noble  avenue  that  sweeps  to  the  Hall,  the  dressing- 
bell  is  clanging  out,  and  young  Squire  Broughton,  fir  shed 
and  eager,  runs  down  the  steps  to  meet  and  greet  them. 


378  TIRED     OUT. 

He  blushes  with  delight  as  he  gives  his  hand  to  his  en- 
chantress. 

"  I  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  the  past  hour,"  he 
says.  "A  little  more,  Lady  Valentine,  and  I  would  have 
mounted  my  'dapple  gray'  and  ridden  forth  in  search  of 
you.  But  what  is  the  matter?  You  are  not  ill,  I  hope  ? 

You  are  as  pale " 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  am  quite  well."  Her  tone  is  as  listless  as 
her  look,  her  smile  so  flitting,  her  manner  so  utterly  with- 
out its  customary  youthful  brightness,  that  the  lad  looks 
at  her  in  real  concern. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not.  You  do  not  look  at  all  well 
— I  mean,  not  like  yourself.  Perhaps,  though,  you  are 
only  tired  after  the  drive." 

"What  is  that?  "  asked  Mrs.  Broughton,  coming  for- 
ward, "  somebody  ill  ?  Not  Lady  Valentine,  surely ! 
Why,  this  will  never  do — our  Pauline  as  pale  as  a  ghost ! 
What  is  it?  The  drive  !  Nonsense,  fifty  miles  would  not 
blanch  Lady  Valentine's  roses.  Surely  you  are  not  such 
a  foolish  child  as  to  let  Sir  Vane's  absence  prey  upon 
your  spirits?" 

Miss  Routh,  sweeping  down  the  wide  oaken  hall, 
laughs  softly  her  silvery  tinkle,  "lhat  is  it,  dear  Mrs. 
Broughton  !  I  did  not  like  to  betray  trust,  but  your  sharp 
eyes  have  found  it  out.  Consider  !  a  bride  of  little  more 
than  half  a  year  !  and  this  is  the  first  separation." 

The  blue-green  eyes  glanced  backward  over  her  shoul- 
der, as  she  turns  to  ascend  the  stairs. 

"  Cheer  up,  Dolores,  cherie.  You  look  as  dismal  as  your 
name.  What  will  your  adoring  Claude  say  presently,  if 
he  finds  his  radiant  Pauline  all  in  the  downs?  For  his 
sake,  if  n  it  for  ours,  forget  the  absent  lover  for  the 
present." 

Dolores  looks  up  at  her — blue  eyes  and  green  meet,  in 
one  long,  level,  defiant  gaze — the  gaze  of  two  swordsmen 
on  guard. 


TIRED    OUT.  379 

"You  are  right,"  she  says.  "You  are  always  right, 
Camilla.  I  will  take  you  at  your  word." 

She  does.  By  a  great  effort  she  throws  off  her  languor, 
her  gloom,  and  gives  herself  up  to  the  spirit  of  the  hour. 
Tliis  is  no  time  for  memory,  no  place  for  cruelly-stu  ig 
and  spurred  hearts.  Eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.  "Gather 
ye  roses  while  ye  may."  Vane  Valentine  is  out;  of  her 
sight,  she  will  shut  him  out  of  her  thoughts  as  well. 
Facilis  est  descensus  Averni — this  poor  Dolores  can  go  the 
pace  as  rapidly  as  the  rest.  Presently  life  and  color  re- 
turn to  her,  the  flush  of  excitement  to  her  cheeks,  its  fire 
to  her  eyes — the  last  trace  of  bitterness  is  gone. 

"That  is  right,"  says  Harry  Broughton,  in  an  approv- 
ing whisper.  "  I  knew  you  would  be  in  first-rate  form 
when  the  time  came.  Gad,  how  I  wish  I  was  to  be  Claude 
instead  of  that  lucky  beggar,  Deering." 

"  That  lucky  beggar  does  not  look  particularly  jubilant 
at  this  moment,"  retorts  Lady  Valentine,  laughing. 

"  That  is  because  he  is  half  a  hundred  miles  from  you, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  with  only  Miss  Routh — the 
Widow  Melnotte — his  mother,  by  Jove!"  with  a  grin. 
"  Filial  affection  ought  to  suffice.  He  can't  expect  to 
monopolize  you  all  the  evening,  even  if  he  is  to  marry 
you  presently.  Miss  Routh  is  smiling  at  him  like  an 
angel,  and  still  he  doesn't  look  grateful.  He  looks  bored. 
He  really  hadn't  ought  to,  as  our  transatlantic  cousins 
have  it." 

"I  am  a  transatlantic  cousin,  Mr.  Broughton,  if  you 
please.  Be  careful." 

"  By  Jove  !  so  you  are.  But  then  you  are  a  Canadian, 
aren't  you?"  looking  puzzled.  "Do  you  know,  I  never 
got  it  straight  somehow.  And  it  is  a  matter  about  which 
I  don't  like  to  be  muddled." 

"  Naturally  !"  laughing.     "  It  is  a  matter  of  moment.'' 

"But  which  are  you?  Yankee,  Canadian,  French — 
which  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"'  still  laughing.     "I  get  muddled  my- 


380  TIRED     OUT. 

self  when  I  try  to  make  it  out.  A  little  of  all  three,  I 
think,  with  a  sprinkling  of  English  extractions  thrown 
in.  See  Miss  Valentine  watching  us — we  really  hadn't 
ought  to,  Harry.  Miss  Valentine  disapproves  of  laugh- 
ter, and  we  are  laughing  shamefully — I  am  sure  I  do  not 
know  at  what — and  we  are  shocking  her  to  the  deepest 
depths  of  her  being." 

Squire  Broughton  makes  a  feeble  effort  to  adjust  -a 
glass  to  one  eye,  and  stares  across  at  the  stern  virgin 
down  the  table.  "  Rum  old  girl,"  he  thinks,  for  in  his 
inner  conscience  this  youthful  Ixeir  is  slangy.  "  I  wonder 
what  it  feels  like  to  be  a  venerable  fossil  like  that,  and 
ugly  enough  to  be  set  up  in  a  corn-field.  What  business 
has  she  with  a  mustache  when  other  fellows  can't  raise  a 
hair  !  Should  think  you  would  find  it  rather — aw — flat- 
tening," he  says,  aloud,  looking  with  compassion  at  his 
fair  friend,  "  to  see  much  of  that  lady.  Elderly  parties 
of  that  stripe  prey  on  my  spirits,  I  know.  But  then, 
of  course,  you  have  always  Miss  Routh." 

"I  have  always  Miss  Routh," assents  Lady  Valentine, 
and  the  smile  that  goes  with  the  words  puzzles  the  simple 
brain  of  young  Broughton.  "  Au  revoir,  Harry  ;  your 
mamma  gives  the  signal.  Don't  stay  long,"  she  whispers, 
coquettishly,  as  she  rises  to  go. 

There  is  no  time  for  staying — the  gentlemen  speedily 
follow  the  ladies,  and  the  stage  is  cleared  for  action. 
A  last  hurried  rehearsal  is  gabbled  through,  while  the 
guests  gather ;  there  is  no  time  for  anything  but  the  play. 
Everybody  runs  about,  chattering  their  speeches  franti- 
cally, with  little  books  in  their  hands.  The  roll  of  car- 
riages is  almost  continuous  now;  there  will  barely  be  time 
to  dress  before  the  hour.  A  very  large  gathering  are 
coming  ;  every  seat  in  the  amateur  theater  promises  to 
be  full.  The  rehearsal  ends ;  there  is  a  long  interval 
during  which  the  audience  talk  and  laugh,  and  flutter 
into  their  seats,  and  read  their  bills.  Fans  languidly 
wave,  jewels  brilliantly  flash,  music  fills  the  air.  The 


TIRED     OUT.  381 

orchestra,  at  least,  is  all  it  should  be  ;  it  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  the  amateurs  are.  The  hour  strikes,  the 
bell  tinkles,  the  drop-scene  goes  up,  the  play  begins. 

All  the  world  knows  what  the  "Lady  of  Lyons,"  per- 
formed by  amateur  actors  and  actresses,  is  like.  Young 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  stricken  dumb  with  stage  fright  at 
sight  of  all  those  watchful  eyes,  losing  every  atom  of 
memory  at  the  first  sound  of  their  own  voices  ;  arms  and 
legs  horribly  in  their  owners'  way  ;  quivering  voices  that 
refuse  to  be  heard  beyond  the  first  row  of  seats.  The 
prompter  and  Colonel  Deering  are  the  two  most  audible 
men  of  the  troupe.  For  the  ladies — Pauline  does  fairly 
well,  speaks  her  words  audibly,  lets  Claude  make  love 
to  her,  as  though  she  were  quite  used  to  it,  and  does  not 
seem  to  find  her  hands  and  arms  an  incumbrance.  It  is 
not  her  first  appearance,  it  will  be  remembered  ;  the 
recollection  of  that  last  time,  when  she  wore  the  dress  of 
"  La  Reine  Blanche,"  and  Rene  and  grandmamma  sat  and 
watched,  rises  before  her  with  a  cruel  pang  more  than 
once.  But  it  will  not  do  to  think  of  old  times,  or  old 
friends,  to-night ;  the  present  is  all  she  can  attend  to. 
She  is  received  and  rewarded  with  great  applause,  and 
many  bouquets,  and  much  soft  clapping  of  gloved  hands. 
On  the  whole,  the  Pauline  and  Claude  of  the  evening 
are  a  success,  and  the  leaven  that  lightens  the  whole 
play. 

"  But  for  Lady  Valentine  and  Colonel  Deering  it 
would  be  a  signal  failure,"  is  the  universal  verdict. 
"  And  a  handsome  pair,  are  they  not  ?  Colonel  Deering 
speaks  and  looks  his  part  to  the  life.  One  would  think 
he  meant  it  every  word."  "  Perhaps  he  does,"  is  the  sig- 
nificant answer.  "  Deering  has  been  hard  hit  for  some 
time,  and  makes  no  secret  of  it.  Watch  him  when  the 
dancing  begins,  and  you  will  see." 

But  there  is  not  much  to  see.  Lady  Valentine  does  a 
few  duty  dances,  one  with  "Claude  Melnotte,"  of  course, 
but  no  more.  She  pleads  a  headache,  sits  out,  to  the 


382  TIRED     OUT. 

unutterable  chagrin  of  at  least  half  a  score  of  soupirants. 
Colonel  Deering  follows  her  lead,  and  dances  as  little  as 
possible  also.  He  keeps  near  her,  but  "  not  at  home  to 
admirers  "  is  written  legibly  in  my  lady's  eyes  to-night. 
She  keeps  close  to  Miss  Valentine — and  the  man  \vho 
could  make  love  within  ear-shot  of  the  austere  Dorothy 
would  be  something  more  than  man.  It  is  all  over  at 
last — she  is  glad  when  it  is,  and  she  can  go  up  to  her 
room,  trailing  the  white  silk  bridal  bravery  of  Madame 
Col.  Melnotte  after  her.  Perhaps  she  is  losing  her  zest 
for  these  things — or  is  it  a  presentiment  of  evil  to  come 
that  weighs  upon  her  to  night  ? 

Next  day  comes,  and  brings  with  it  Colonel  Deering, 
and  sundry  of  his  brother  officers.  The  ladies  Valentine 
were  to  have  departed  after  breakfast,  but  their  host  and 
hostess  urge  them  to  remain  until  after  luncheon.  Miss 
Routh  yields  gracefully,  so  perforce  the  others  follow, 
she  is  ever  leader  in  these  small  social  amenities.  Do- 
lores does  not  care.  Here,  or  at  Valentine,  what  does  it 
signify — it  is  equally  triste  everywhere.  So  they  reriain 
until  afternoon,  and  then,  attended  by  a  strong  military 
escort,  set  out  on  the  return  march,  home.  That  dull 
feeling  of  impending  evil  weighs  upon  Lady  Valentine 
still.  She  cannot  talk,  she  sits  silent,  listless,  languid, 
the  gay  chatter  of  Miss  Routh  falling  without  meaning 
on  her  ears.  She  hardly  cares  what  may  happen;  it  seems 
to  her  life  can  be  no  more  bitter,  no  more  hopeless,  than 
it  is.  Her  heart  lies  like  lead  within  her — the  brief,  ficti- 
tious sparkle  of  last  night  has  vanished  like  the  bubbles 
on  champagne.  Life  stretches  out  a  dreary,  stagnant 
blank  once  more. 

She  goes  up  to  her  rooms  the  moment  she  arrives. 
Jemima  Ann,  for  a  wonder,  is  not  there  to  meet  her. 
"Send  my  maid,  please,"  she  says  to  one  of  the  house- 
maids, and  the  girl  looks  at  her  with  almost  startled  eyes. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  my  lady,  Jemima  ain't  here!" 


TIRED     OUT.  383 

"Not  here?"  pausing  and  looking.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  Not  here?  Where  is  she,  then?" 

"  Please,  my  lady,  she's  gone  away." 

"Gone  away !" 

"Yes,  my  lady,  with  Sir  Vane.  And  if  you  please, 
ny  lady,  1  think  she's  gone  like  for  good."  She  has  been 
standing — she  sits  suddenly  down  at  the,/e  words,  feeling 
sick  and  faint.  "There's  a  letter  for  yoa,  my  lady,"  the 
woman  goes  on — "there's  two,  please,  on  your  dressing- 
room  table.  She  cried  when  she  was  going  away.  She 
went  last  evening  about  an  hour  after  you." 

Without  a  word  my  lady  hurries  into  the  dressing- 
room.  There,  on  the  table,  two  letters  lie — one  all  blurred 
and  nearly  illegible  with  tears,  and  blots,  and  blisters. 

"  MY   EVER   DEAREST,  DEAR    MlSS    SNOWBALL — He  SayS 

I  must  go  away.  He  says  I  must  go  this  very  hour,  and 
without  bidding  good-by  to  you.  I  hope  you  will  be 
able  to  read  this,  but  I  am  so  blind  with  Drying,  I  can 
hardly  see  to  set  down  the  words.  If  I  make  trouble,  it 
is  better  for  me  to  go.  My  own  dear,  sweet  Miss  Snow- 
ball, geod-by.  I  am  going  to  London  first,  and  I  will 
write  to  you  from  there.  And  I  hope  you  will  answer — 
I  cannot  go  back  home  without  a  word  from  you.  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy,  and  not  forget  your  poor  Jemima 
Ann.  1  have  plenty  of  money,  so  don't  worry  about 
that.  Good-by,  my  own  best  and  dearest  darling.  I  will 
never  serve  any  one  again  as  long  as  I  live  that  I  will 
love  like  I  do  you.  Your  ever  faithful  JEMIMA  ANN." 

She  takes  up  the  second  letter ;  it  is  shorter. 

"  DOLORES — You  refused  to  obey  me  and  dismiss  the 
woman,  Jemima.  As  I  am  determined  to  be  obeyed  in 
all  things,  great  and  small,  I  remove  her  this  evening. 
Do  not  attempt  to  go  after  her  or  have  her  back.  You 
will  defy  me  in  this,  or  in  anything  else,  at  your  peril. 
"  Your  husband,  V  VNE  VALENTINE." 


384  OTHER    DAYS. 

A  shadow  comes  between  her  and  the  sunshine.  She 
looks  up  from  these  last  merciless  words,  and  sees  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold,  a  sneering  smile  of  triumph  on  her 
face,  Camilla  Routh. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
"NOT  THUS  IN  OTHER  DAYS  WE   MET." 


T  is  four  ho  irs  later.  The  down  express  from 
London  leives  one  traveler  at  the  village  sta- 
tion, and  thunders  away  again  into  the  yellow 
sunset.  A  foreign  gent,  the  loungers  at  the 
station  set  him  down  ;  very  dark,  with  a  long  black  mus- 
tache, and  a  certain  undefinable  air  of  cities  and  travel 
about  him.  His  only  luggage  is  a  black  portmanteau, 
also  of  foreign  look,  and  well  pasted  with  labels.  He 
inquires,  in  perfect  English,  with  only  the  slightest  pos- 
sible foreign  accent,  the  way  to  Valentine  Manor.  A 
barefoot  rustic  lad  undei  takes,  for  sixpence,  to  show  him 
thither,  and  afterward  carry  his  bag  to  the  Ratherripe 
Arms,  and  together  they  set  out. 

It  is  the  hour  "between  the  gloaming  and  the  mirk," 
the  hour  of  Ave  Maria  in  the  fair,  far-off  land  whence 
this  stranger  and  pilgrim  has  come.  The  fields  across 
which  his  guide  takes  him,  by  a  short-cut,  lie  steeped  in 
sheets  of  gold-gray  light ;  overhead  there  is  a  gold-gray 
sky,  flecked  here  and  there  with  crimson  bars.  The  sleepy 
cows  lift  slow,  large  eyes  and  regard  them  as  they  pass. 
A  faint,  sweet,  warm  wind  stirs  in  the  tree-tops,  and  the 
dark,  watchful  eyes  of  the  stranger  drink  it  all  in — the 
quiet  beauty  of  the  twilit  landscape. 

"At  the  eventide  there  shall  be  light,"  he  dreamily 
thinks.  "  One  might  be  happy  here,  if  rural  peace  and 
loveliness  were  all.' 


OTHER    DAYS.  385 

They  pass  a  last  stile,  and  the  youthful  guide  pauses 
and  points  to  the  zig-zag  path  between  the  trees. 

"  Keep  straight  up  yon,"  he  says,  "  t'  house  is  at  the 
t'other  end." 

The  traveler  hands  the  promised  sixpence,  and  the 
lad  scampers  away.  The  footpath  is  a  continuation  of 
the  short-cut  across  the  park,  and  ends  at  one  of  the 
Queen  Anne  flower  gardens.  The  Manor  is  in  sight 
now,  and  he  pauses  to  look  at  it,  something  more  than 
mere  curiosity  in  his  gaze.  With  the  full  flush  of  the 
crimson  and  gfold  west  upon  it,  gilding  climbing  rose, 
and  trailing  ivy,  and  tall  honeysuckle,  softening  its  de- 
cay, mellowing  its  ugly  angles,  it  is  a  quaint  and  pic- 
turesque old  house  indeed,  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
with  its  top-heavy  chimneys  and  mullioned  windows,  and 
antique-timbered  porches.  Hitherto  he  has  met  no  one, 
now  the  flutter  of  a  lady's  dress  catches  his  eye.  A  robe 
of  soft  "  hodden  gray  "  color,  dear  to  the  artist  eye,  a  touch 
of  deep  crimson,  a  gleam  of  creamy  lace,  the  sheen  of 
braided  yellow  hair,  a  face  in  profile  under  a  straw  hat — 
that  is  what  he  sees.  And  for  a  moment  the  man's  heart 
within  him  stands  still. 

"  Therewith  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  turned, 

And  a  great  fire  within  him  burned, 
And  his  heart  stopped  awhile — for  there 
Against  a  thorn  bush  fair 

His  heart's  desire  his  eyes  did  see." 

She  is  seated  on  a  knoll,  her  head  resting  against  the 
rough  brown  boll  of  a  tree,  her  white  hands  lying  loosely 
in  her  lap,  without  work  or  book,  and  so  still  that  at  first 
he  thinks  she  is  asleep.  But  coming  closer  he  sees  that 
she  is  not ;  the  blue  eyes  are  looking  with  a  strange  sort 
of  vacancy  straight  before  her,  at  the  red  and  amber  light 
in  the  sky.  S'be  does  not  hear  him  ;  he  treads  lightly,  and 
the  elastic  tujr  gives  like  velvet ;  she  does  not  see  hum, 
she  seems  to  see  nothing,  not  even  the  lovely  sunset  light 
on  which  her  blank  eyes  gaze.  He  is  by  her  side  looking- 
17 


386  OTHER    DAYS. 

down  on  her  as  she  sits,  his  whole  passionate  heart  in  his 
eyes.  "  Snowball !"  he  says.  She  almost  bounds,  soft 
as  the  sound  of  his  voice  is.  She  springs  to  her  feet,  and 
stands  looking  at  him,  her  lips  apart,  her  eyes  dilated, 
mute  with  amaze.  "  Snowball  !"  he  says,  and  holds  out 
both  hands,  "  I  have  startled  you.  But  I  had  no  thought 
of  coming  upon  you  like  this.  I  was  going  to  the  house 
when  I  chanced  to  see  you  here."  He  stops.  She  does 
not  answer,  does  not  take  the  eager  hands  he  holds  out ; 
she  only  stands  and  looks,  too  dazed  by  the  shock  of  sur- 
prise for  welcome  or  for  joy. 

For  Rene,  a  terrible  pang  pierces  him.  Is  this  Snow- 
ball— bright,  laughing,  radiant  Snowball — so  full  of  im- 
pulsive gladness  and  happy  greeting  always — this  pale, 
silent,  stricken  shadow  ? 

"  Rene !"  she  says,  at  last,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
"  Rene  !" 

And  then,  slowly,  a  great  gladness  fills  the  blue  eyes, 
a  great  welcome,  a  great  joy.  She  gives  him  her  hands, 
and  tears  well  up  and  fill  the  blue,  sad  eyes.  "  Rene  ! 
Rene  !"  she  says,  and  there  is  a  sob  in  the  voice  ;  "I  nevet 
thought  to  see  you  again." 

He  clasps  the  hands,  wasted  and  fragile,  and  looks  at 
her,  and  says  nothing.  He  thinks  of  the  last  time  when 
he  came  upon  her  thus  suddenly,  among  the  Roman  hill- 
tops. How  brightly  beautiful  had  been  the  joyous  young 
face  then  ! — how  impulsively  eager  and  joyful  her  greet- 
ing then  ! — how  different  from  this  !  Now — he  has  it  in 
his  heart  to  invoke  a  curse  on  the  head  of  the  man  who 
has  changed  her  like  this.  "  How  white  you  are  !"  he 
says — "  like  a  spirit  here  in  the  gloaming,  my  Snowball. 
You  do  not  look  well.  Have  you  been  ill,  Carina  ?" 

11  111  ?  Oh,  no,"  she  answers,  wearily;  "  I  am  never  ill. 
Do  not  mind  my  looks — what  do  they  signify  ? — tell  me 
what  has  brought  you  to  England  ?" 

"Sit  down  again,  then,"  he  says.  "You  do  hot  look 
fit  to  stand." 


OTHER    DAYS.  387 

She  obeys  him,  sinking  back  on  the  grassy  knoll, 
hardly  yet  believing  the  evidence  of  her  ears  and  eyes. 
"Rene,  Rene  —  here  —  how  strange!" 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  asks.  "You  look  as  if  you  had 
something  to  say.  Why  are  you  in  England  —  at  Valen- 
tine ?  It  seems  so  strange." 

"That  sounds  slightly  inhospitable,  Lady  Valentine,'* 
smiling.  It  is  an  effort  to  call  her  by  this  name  her  hus- 
band has  given  her,  but  it  helps  to  keep  in  his  mind, 
what  there  is  some  danger  of  his  forgetting,  looking  in 
that  pallid,  wistful,  too-dear  face,  but  even  while  he  says 
it,  he  hates  it  and  him. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean  ?  "  she  says,  simply.  "  I  am 
not  afraid  of  being  misunderstood  by  you,  Rene.  You 
did  not  come  all  the  way  here  simply  to  .^ee  me.  You 
would  not  have  come  for  that.  It  is  sorr  ething  else  — 
something  important.  What  is  it  ?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  he  looks  at  her  anxiously,  in 
doubt.  "  You  do  not  look  well,  and  it  v/ill  —  it  must  — 
shock  you,  Snowball.  Yes  —  I  have  something  to  tell 
you,  something  distressing,  and  very,  very  strange.  I 
hardly  know  how  you  will  believe  it  —  you  may  not  —  and 
yet  it  is  true.  I  have  felt  it  rather  hard  from  the  first, 
that  /  should  be  the  one  chosen  to  bear  the  evil  tidings, 
but  fate  has  thrust  it  upon'  me.  It  is  a  long  story,  and  I 
should  like  to  tell  you  immediately.  Are  we  likely  to  be 
disturbed  here?" 

"No  in  the  least  likely.  No  one  ever  comes  here. 
It  is  the  most  secluded  spot  in  the  paik.  I  choose  it  al- 
ways for  that  reason.  Now  what,  I  wonder,  is  this  arnaz* 
ing  revelation  you  have  to  make  ?" 

"  It  is  amazing.  It  is  the  story  of  the  dead  alive.  Do- 
lores, listen  —  here  —  George  Valentine  has  risen  from  his 


"  What  !" 

"  He  never  was  drowned,  you  know.     It  was  all  a 


388  OTHER    DAYS. 

mistake — that  old  story  of  long  ago.  He  was  not 
drowned.  He  is  alive  to-day  !" 

She  sits  and  stares  at  him,  trying  to  take  this  in.  A 
flush  sweeps  over  her  face.  "  Rene  !  Oh,  Rene,  think 
what  you  say  !  My  father " 

"  And  he  is  not  your  father — that  is  where  the  trouble 
comes.  He  left  his  wife — your  mother — within  a  year  of 
their  marriage.  For  five  years  she  heard  nothing  of  him 
— when  she  did  it  was  what  others  heard — that  he  was 
drowned.  And  she  married  again.  Your  parents  are 
both  dead,  as  you 'always,  until  of  late  years,  thought 
but  George  Valentine  lives.  You  are  no  kin  of  his — no 
drop  of  Valentine  blood  flows  in  your  veins." 

She  sits  and  listens,  and  looks  pale  with  consternation 
and  amaze — though  slowly  it  dawns  upon  her,  this  that 
she  hears.  "Then  grandmamma  was  deceived,  I  was  not 
her  granddaughter  after  all — not  her  heiress.  Oh,  Rene  ! 
Rene  !  if  she — if  I — if  he — Sir  Vane — had  but  known 
that !"  She  stops  and  covers  her  face  for  a  moment  with 
her  hands.  Not  Madam  Valentine's  heiress — if  she  had 
but  known  that !  She  might  have  been  free  to-day,  or — 
Rene's  wife. 

"  If  we  had  but  known,"  Rene  echoes,  sadly.  "It  has 
been  a  fatal  mistake.  It  would  have  been  better,  I  some- 
times think,  if,  at  this  late  day,  it  were  unknown  still. 
But  George  Valentine  lives,  and  what  he  has  lost  may  be 
his  again.  It  was  Madam  Valentine — not  he — who 
commissioned  rne  to  come  here  and  tell  you  this. 
i  Nothing  short  of  a  pledge  to  the  dying  could  have  made 
me  do  it.  It  is  a  singular  story,  this,  I  have  come  to  tell." 

And  he  tells  it — the  story  of  Paul  Farrar,  the  change 
of  name  and  identity,  the  escape  from  shipwreck,  the 
after  life,  the  return  to  Rome,  the  railroad  tragedy,  and 
the  recognition.  He  softens  every  detail  that  he  can — of 
her  mother,  of  her  father,  of  course,  there  is  nothing  to 
tell.  His  biography  is  of  the  briefest.  He  was — and  he 
died.  He  repeats  Madam  Valentine's  dying  words — her 


OTHER    DAYS.  389 

convict/on  that  Vane  Valentine  will  resign  the  fortune 
and  the  title  to  which  he  has  no  shadow  of  right.  And 
Dolores  listens  to  it  all,  with  a  half  dazed  sort  of  com- 
prehension, feeling  giddy  with  the  effort  to  take  it  in,  but 
convinced  that  it  is  true,  because  Rene  is  convinced,  and 
because  M.  Paul  is  the  lost  heir,  and  because  "grand- 
mamma" wished  it  on  her  dying  bed. 

There  is  silence  for  a  little  when  he  has  done.  The 
gray  evening  shadows  are  creeping  up,  and  the  ruby 
fires  of  the  sunset  are  paling  fast.  She  sits  and  looks  at 
that  dying  light,  some  of  the  rising  gray  shadows  seeming 
to  darken  her  face.  Is  she  sorry — is  she  glad  ?  She 
hardly  knows  ;  she  feels  apathetic  ;  poor  or  rich — what 
does  it  matter  ?  George  Valentine's  daughter,  or  the 
child  of  this  unknown  man  whose  name  was  Randall — 
what  does  it  signify  now  ?  She  is  still — come  else  what 
may — Vane  Valentine's  wife.  No  change  can  change 
that.  Other  things  are  nothing,  less  than  nothing.  For 
her  the  world  has  come  to  an  end — such  things  as  Rene 
tells  her  of  are  outside  the  one  vital  interest  of  her  life. 
If  she  could  but  be  free  again  ?  But  she  is  in  bonds  and 
fetters  for  all  time.  Let  rank  and  wealth  then  come  and 
go  as  they  list. 

"  Well,"  Rene  breaks  in  upon  her  dreary  reverie,  after 
a  long  pause.  "  You  are  silent.  You  look  strangely — 
like  a  ghost,  almost,  in  this  half  light.  What  is  it,  Carina 
mia  ?" 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  she  answers,  dreamily,  "it  is 
all  so  strange.  I  am  trying  to  realize  it.  M.  Paul  Farrar 
— George  Valentine  !  Well  it  is  easy  to  believe  anything 
of  M.  Paul — he  was  always  like  an  exiled  prince.  And 
his  mother  knew  and  forgave  him  at  the  last  !  and  he 
made  her  dying  hours  happy  !  Ah  !  that  is  a  good  hear- 
ing. But  the  fortune — the  title — does  he  think — his 
cousin  will  give  them  up?" 

"  No,  Dolores  ;  he  does  not." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  she  says,  simply,  and  her  large  eyes  look 


390  OTHER    DAYS. 

at  him  earnestly ;  "  I  am  sure  he  will  not.  Will  the  lav* 
compel  him,  Rene?" 

"  I  think  so.  I  feel  sure  it  would  eventually,  if  George 
Valentine  should  choose  to  resort  to  law.  But  he  will 
not  V 

"  No  !     Then  why " 

"  He  has  no  hope,  Snowball,  of  getting  his  own  back 
again;  and  he  does  not  much  care,  I  think.  If  you  were 
happy  as  mistress  here — as  that  man's  wife " 

She  makes  a  sudden  motion,  and  he  stops.  She  feels 
she  cannot  trust  herself  on  this  ground;  it  is  best  not  to 
tread  on  it  at  all. 

"  Leave  me  out  of  the  question,"  she  says;  "  it  is  a 
point  of  honor — of  simple  right  and  honesty — not  of 
feeling.  If  George  Valentine  lives,  we — I  have  no  right 
here.  Perhaps  I  wrong  my  husband — who  knows?  At 
least  we  will  not  prejudge  him.  He  shall  know  all, 
and  thus " 

They  sit  silent;  they  know  so  well  what  Vane  Valen- 
tine's decision  will  be. 

"  Is  M.  Paul  in  England?"  she  asks. 

"  He  is  not ;  he  remains  in  Rome.  He  is  strangely 
sensitive  and  abhorrent  of  all  notoriety.  Half  a  score  of 
fortunes  would  not  make  up  to  him  for  the  pain  of  tell- 
ing his  story  to  the  world.  That  is  why  a  question  of 
birthright,  easily  enough  proven,  I  should  fancy,  becomes 
a  question  of  honor.  If,  in  the  face  of  the  evidence  he  is 
prepared  to  show,  Vane  Valentine  persists  in  keeping 
what  he  has  got,  through  you,  then  keep  it  he  must. 
George  Valentine  will  never  tell  the  story  of  his  reckless, 
erratic  life  to  the  world  through  the  medium  of  an  end- 
less Chancery  suit." 

"  It  is  like  him,"  she  says.  There  is  another  pause. 
"Where  are  you  stopping,  Rene?"  she  inquires,  sud- 
denly. 

"  At  the  inn  in  the  village.  I  am  going  up  to  London, 
however " 


OTHER    DAYS.  391 

"No."  she  interrupts  ;  "  do  not  for  a  day  or  two.  My 
husband  is  in  Cornwall;  I  will  write  to  him  to-night,  and 
tell  him  what  you  have  told  me.  Wait  here  until  I  receive 
his  answer.  Who  knows  ?  We  may  wrong  him.  When 
the  truth  is  fully  known  to  him " 

"Who  is  that  lady  ?"  asks  Rene,  abruptly,  "there  be- 
tween the  trees — in  the  pink  dress.  She  has  been  watch- 
ing us  for  the  last  five  minutes." 

"  In  a  pink  dress  ?  Miss  Routh  then,  of  course,"  her 
delicate  lips  curling;  "  it  is  her  metier  to  watch  me  always. 
Yes,  it  is  Camilla  Routh,  and  she  sees  that  we  see  her." 

The  pink  dress  emerges,  its  wearer  advances.  Who 
is  this  olive-skinned,  dark-mustached.  extremely  hand- 
some young  man,  with  whom  her  cousin's  wife  talks  so 
long,  so  earnestly,  so  secretly,  under  trees,  in  hidden 
places  in  the  park  ?  It  is  her  duty  to  see  into  this,  and 
curiosity  is  nearly  as  powerful  as  sense  of  duty  with  Miss 
Routh.  So  she  comes  forward,  gathering  field  flowers 
and  ferns  as  she  comes,  humming  a  little  tune — fair, 
sweet,  artless,  unconscious,  a  picture  of  blonde,  patrician 
British  beauty.  But  she  is  not  destined  to  be  gratified — 
it  is  the  rudest  repulse,  perhaps  Miss  Routh  has  ever  re- 
ceived in  l:.er  life.  As  she  draws  near,  Lady  Valentine 
deliberately  rises,  eying  her  full,  passes  her  hand  through 
the  arm  of  her  picturesque-looking  cavalier,  and  turns 
hei  back  upon  her  enemy.  Rene  is  rather  aghast,  but 
there  is  nothing  for  him  but  to  follow  Dolores'  lead.  It 
is  the  most  cutting  of  cuts  direct.  Miss  Routh  stops — 
stunned. 

"Do  not  come  up  to  the  house,  Rene,"  Dolores  says, 
her  pale  cheek  flashing  painfully.  "I  cannot  ask  you. 
And  do  not  come  here  again  either.  I  fear  that  woman. 
When  I  hear  from — him — I  will  let  you  know,  /believe 
what  you  tell  me — say  so  to  Paul — whatever  the  result 
may  be.  Until  then — adieu  and  au  revoir" 

Miss  Routh,  watching  afar  off  in  speechless,  furious 
anger,  sees  her  hold  out  her  two  hands,  sees  him  take 


392  OTHER    DAYS. 

them,  and  hold  them  in  a  clasp  that  is  close  and  long. 
Oh  !  that  Vane,  that  Porothy,  that  Colonel  Deeringwere 
but  here  now  !  She  cannot  hear  a  word  they  say — more 
is  the  pity — making  a  second  assignation,  no  doubt.  Be- 
fore she  sleeps  Vane  shall  be  written  to  of  this,  shall  hear 
it  with  all  the  additions  and  embellishments  that  malice 
and  hatred  can  add.  A  dull  glow  of  horrid  triumph  fills 
her  in  the  midst  of  her  rage.  Let  her  look  to  it  after 
this  !  It  is  the  young  French-Canadian  sculptor,  no 
doubt,  of  whom  Vane  is  already  jealous.  She  has  lost 
no  time  in  sending  for  her  old  lover,  now  that  her  hus- 
band is  out  of  the  way  !  It  is  a  coarse  thought,  but  the 
fair  Camilla's  thoughts  are  mostly  coarse.  Let  her  look 
to  it !  the  insult  has  been  deadly — the  reprisal  shall  be 
the  same. 

They  .part.  Rene  returns  to  the  village — the  two 
ladies,  by  different  paths,  to  the  house.  Miss  Routh  does 
not  appear  at  dinner  ;  she  is  busy  over  a  letter,  every  word 
of  which  is  freighted  with  a  venomous  sting.  She  likes 
her  dinner,  and  has  it  brought  up  to  her,  but  she  likes  her 
revenge  better.  My  lady  writes  a  letter  too,  before  she 
sleeps,  also  a  long  one  ;  it  takes  her  until  past  midnight, 
and  is  a  carefully  and  minutely-worded  repetition  of  the 
story  Rene  has  told  her  under  the  trees.  There  is  more 
than  the  story — an  earnest  protestation  of  her  belief  in 
its  truth,  and  her  perfecUwillingness  to  resign  the  fortune, 
to  which  she  has  never  had  a  shadow  of  right. 

"  I  do  not  fear  poverty,"  she  writes,  "  trust  me,  Vane  ! 
I  was  never  born  to  be  a  lady  of  rank  and  riches — botli 
have  been  a  burden  to  me,  a  burden  I  will  lay  down,  oh  ! 
so  gladly.  This  '  burden  of  an  honor  unto  which  I  was 
not  born  '  has  weighed  upon  me  like  an  evil  incubus 
from  the  first.  Oh,  my  husband,  let  us  give  back  to 
George  Valentine  his  birthright.  He  will  act  gener- 
ously— more  than  generously,  I  know,  for  I  know  ///";// — 
and  for  me,  I  will  go  with  you,  and  be  in  the  day  of  dis- 
aster more  faithful,  more  fond,  more  truly  your  wife,  than 


THE    HOUR. 


393 


I  can  ever  be  weighted  down  with  wealth  to  which  neither 
of  us  has  a  claim." 

But  while  she  writes — her  whole  heart  in  her  pleading 
words — she  knmus  she  writes  in  vain.  More  of  her  woman's 
heari  is  in  this  letter  than  she  has  ever  before  shown  to 
the  man  she  has  married.  Apart  from  the  misery  of 
dwelling  under  the  same  roof  as  Camilla  Routh — with 
the  right  done  nobly  for  the  right's  sake — far  away  from 
this  place  in  which  she  has  been  so  wretched,  poor  and 
obscure,  if  it  must  be,  she  feels  that  a  sort  of  happiness 
is  possible  to  her  yet.  If  her  husband  is  capable  of  an 
action  at  once  honest  and  noble,  then  her  heart  will  go 
out  to  him — freely,  fully.  The  very  thought  of  his  doing 
it  seems  to  bring  him  nearer  to  her  already.  If  he  will 
but  do  the  right — if  he  will  but  let  her,  she  may  care  for 
him  yet. 

Next  morning,  by  the  earliest  mail,  two  very  lengthy, 
very  disturbing  epistles,  in  feminine  chirography,  go 
down  to  Sir  Vane  Valentine,  Bart.,  among  the  mines  of 
Flintbarrow. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 
"IT  WAS   THE   HOUR   WHEN   WOODS  ARE  COLD." 

HERE  come  times  in  most  lives  when,  after 
long  depression  and  wearing  worries,  a  sort 
of  revulsion,  a  sort  of  exaltation  of  feeling 
sets  in.  Such  a  time  comes  now  to  Dolores. 
There  is  a  revulsion  in  favor  of  her  absent  husband. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  he  is  absent  has  something  to  do 
with  it.  Looking  in  his  gloomy  face,  it  would  seem  a 
difficult  thing  for  any  woman  wife  or  otherwise,  to  get 
up  much  sentiment  for  Vane  Valentine.  Her  ideas,  after 
all,  of  the  sacrifice  demanded  are  vague.  If  Manor  Val« 


394  THE    HOUR. 

entine  and  the  fortune  are  resigned  to  their  lawful  owner, 
she  knows  very  little  what  will  remain  to  them  She 
doubts  greatly  if  the  sacrifice  will  be  made  ;  it  will  never 
be,  at  least,  until  proof  "  clear  as  Holy  Writ "  is  placed 
before  him — that  is  to  be  expected.  He  will  be  enraged 
and  unbelieving,  beyond  doubt.  Still,  once  convinced — 
and  she  is  sure  such  conviction  must  be  possible  since  M. 
Paul  is  the  claimant — he  cannot  be  so  glaringly  dishonest 
and  dishonorable  as  to  retain  what  will  no  longer  be  his. 
Dolores,  reasoning  on  these  points,  is  primitive  and  of 
another  world  than  this  ;  the  distinction  between  mine 
and  thine  stands  out  with  almost  startling  vividness  in 
her  unworldly  mind.  To  retain,  knowingly,  the  goods  of 
another  is  to  resign  hope  of  salvation  here  and  hereafter 
• — that  is  her  creed,  sharp  and  clear.  It  is  quite  in  her  to 
regard  with  horror  and  aversion  such  a  one.  For  a  hus- 
band capable  of  such  a  crime  she  feels  that  even  the  out- 
ward semblance  of  regard  and  duty  must  come  to  an  end 
— that  for  him,  for  all  time,  nothing  but  contempt  could 
live  in  her  heart.  And  to  drag  out  life  by  the  side  of  a 
man  one  despises — well,  life  holds  for  any  woman  few 
harder  things. 

But  if  he  does  the  right — oh  !  then  how  gladly  will  she 
go  with  him,  to  poverty  if  need  be  ;  how  she  will  honor 
him,  how  hardly  she  will  try  to  win  him  back.  She  does 
not  fear  poverty — was  she  not  poor  on  Isle  Perdrix,  and 
were  not  those  the  best,  the  very  best,  days  of  her  short 
life?  She  would  like  a  cottage,  she  thinks,  where  she 
might  reign  alone,  far  from  stern  Miss  Dorothy,  sneering 
Miss  Routh,  and  with  her  husband  alone,  who  knows  ? 
— she  might  learn  to  love  him;  he  even  might  learn  a  little 
to  care  for  her.  She  would  so  strive,  so  try,  so  pray  ! 
Anything — anything  would  be  better  than  this  death  in 
life  here,  this  most  miserable  estrangement,  this  loveless 
house,  these  cold,  hard  faces.  Any  change,  be  it  what  it 
may,  must  be  for  the  better.  She  will  try,  at  least — the 


THE    HOUR.  395 

opportunity  being  given — she  will  do  her  utmost  to 
soften  and  win  the  man  who  is  her  husband. 

With  hopes  like  these  in  her  girl's  mind,  Dolores  waits 
through  the  long  day  that  follows.  She  does  not  go  out ; 
she  has  a  feeling  that  she  would  rather  not  meet  Rene 
again  until  she  has  seen  her  husband.  She  must  be  loyal 
of  heart,  even  to  the  shadow  of  a  shadow,  and  to  sit  by 
Rene's  side,  look  up  in  Rene's  eyes,  listen  to  Rene's 
voice,  and  remain  thoroughly  true  to  Vane  Valentine,  is 
no  such  easy  task.  If  she  goes  abroad  she  may  meet  him, 
so  she  remains  at  home. 

The  evening  post  brings  her  a  letter  from  London, 
from  Jemima  Ann.  She  has  half  forgotten  this  faithful 
friend,  in  thinking  of  other  things;  she  feels  self- 
reproachful  for  it,  as  she  reads.  Jemima  is  stopping, 
for  the  present,  in  an  humble  London  lodging,  and  pro- 
poses remaining  there  until  her  "dear  sweet  Miss  Snow- 
ball "  writes  good-by.  Then  she  will  go  back  to  New 
York  and  resume  life  in  her  native  land.  It  is  not  quite 
so  easy  to  think  wifely  thoughts  of  Sir  Vane  and  make 
generous  resolutions,  after  reading  this,  and  remember- 
ing how  treacherously  and  stealthily  this  humble  friend 
was  forced  away. 

Another  night;  another  day.  This  day  certainly  will 
bring  the  absent  seigneur.  A  strange  nervousness,  be- 
gotten of  waiting  and  expectation,  hope  and  dread,  fills 
her.  She  can  rest  nowhere;  she  wanders  aimlessly  about 
the  house,  starting  at  every  heavy  footstep,  at  every 
opening  door. 

Miss  Routh  watches  her  with  malicious,  smiling  eyes. 
She  has  seen  Rene,  at  least ;  has  walked  down  to  the  vil- 
lage on  purpose,  and  chatted  for  five  minutes  condescend- 
ingly with  the  hostess.  No,  they  have  not  many  strangers 
at  the  Arms  this  spring,  the  landlady  says,  dropping  a 
c  nirtesy.  Only  one  just  now;  a  Mr.  Macdonald,  a  foreign- 
er, by  his  looks,  and  ways,  and  talk,  in  spite  of  his  Scotch 
name.  No,  she  does  not  know  when  he  is  going  away; 


396  THE    HOUR. 

he  does  not  say  ;  he  is  a  real  gentleman  in  all  his  \7ays, 
and  gives  very  little  trouble.  Mr.  Macdonald  appears  at 
the  moment,  walking  briskly  up  the  road,  with  his  sketch- 
book and  cigar,  and  keen  dark  eyes,  and  Miss  Routh 
hastily  pulls  down  her  vail  and  departs. 

The  day  wears  on.  Sir  Vane  comes  not.  It  brings  no 
answer  to  her  letter  either,  and  Dolores'  fitful  exaltation 
of  feeling  vanishes  as  it  came.  A  dull  depression,  a  fear 
of  the  future,  fills  her.  How  blank  and  drear  that  long 
life-path  stretches  before  her,  here  in  this  silent,  dark, 
moldering  old  home,  with  the  faces  of  these  two  women 
who  dislike  her,  before  her  every  day,  and  all  day  long  ! 
Insulted,  distrusted,  unloved,  /tow  shall  she  bear  it  to  the 
bitter  end.  And  she  is  but  nineteen,  and  life  looks  so 
long,  so  long  ! 

Perhaps  it  is  the  unusual  confinement  to  the  house 
that  is  telling  upon  her  ;  it  is  now  two  days  since  sh« 
has  been  out.  A  half-stifled  feeling  oppresses  her ;  she 
must  get  out  of  these  deathly-silent,  gruesome  rooms, 
or  suffocate.  It  is  after  dinner  ;  the  last  ray  of  twilight 
is  fading  out ;  there  is  a  broad  May  moon  rising,  and  a 
star-studded  sky. 

She  leaves  the  house  and  wanders  aimlessly  for  awhile 
between  the  prim  beds  and  borders  of  one  of  the  stiff 
Dutch  gardens.  Now  and  then  she  stoops  to  gather  the 
old-fashioned,  sweet-smelling  flowers,  but  almost  without 
knowing  what  she  does.  A  nightingale  is  singing,  in  a 
thorn-bush  near,  a  song  so  piercingly  sweet,  so  mournful 
in  its  sweetness,  that  she  stops,  and  the  tears  rise  to  her 
eyes  as  she  listens.  And  in  that  stop  and  pause  to  listen 
something  more  than  the  nightingale's  song  reaches 
her  ear — the  soft,  cooing  tones  of  Camilla  Routh  pro* 
nouncing  her  name. 

"  Dolores'  lover  ?  Was  he  really  a  lover  of  your  wife's, 
Vane,  before  you  married  her?"  she  is  asking.  "  Any- 
thing more  lover-like  than  they  looked  when  I  surprised 
them  it  would  be  difficult  to  find.  And  he  is  very  hand- 


THE    HOUR.  397 

some — there  can  be  no  mistake  about  that — with  the  most 
beautiful  Spanish  eyes  I  think  I  ever  saw." 

There  is  a  grumbling  reply  ;  it  sounds  like,  "  Devil 
take  his  eyes  !"  and  it  is  in  the  voice  of  the  lord  of  Val- 
entine. 

Dolores  stands  quite  still,  thrilled  and  shocked,  feel- 
ing all  cold  and  rigid,  and  powerless  to  move.  A  tall, 
thick  hedge  separates  them  ;  she  wears  a  dark,  dun-col- 
ored dress,  and  in  this  shadowy  light,  among  the  other 
shadows  of  trees  and  moonlight,  she  can  hardly  be  seen. 
They  are  walking  slowly  up  and  down  a  secluded  avenue 
known  as  the  Willow  Walk.  In  the  deep  evening  hush 
even  Miss  Routh's  subdued  tones  are  distinctly  and  pain- 
fully audible. 

"  He  is  still  in  the  village,"  again  it  is  Miss  Routh 
who  speaks  ;  <l  how  often  they  meet,  where  they  meet,  I 
do  not  know.  That  they  do  meet  is  certain,  of  course. 
Yes,  Colonel  Deering  has  called  twice,  but  she  has  de- 
clined to  see  him  ;  one  lover,  I  suppose,  at  a  time,  is  as 
much  as  she  can  attend  to. 

*  "  Old  loves,  new  loves,  what  are  they  worth  ? 
Old  love  dies  at  the  new  love's  birth.'  " 

hums  the  fair  Camilla,  and  laughs  softly. 

"  Signor  Rene  is  far  and  away  the  handsomer  man  of 
the  two." 

"Are  you  too  deserting  Deering  and  going  over  to  this 
sallow,  black-eyed  boy,  Camilla  ?"  retorts,  with  a  sneer, 
Sir  Vane. 

"No,"  lightly.  "Like  your  pretty  wife,  I  am  true  to 
my  first  lover.  She  is  pretty,  Vane — really  pretty.  I  al- 
ways doubted  it — being  a  blonde  myself,  I  seldom  admire 
blondes — but  the  other  evening,  when  I  came  upon  her  by 
his  side  down  there  in  the  park,  you  should  have  seen 
her — transfigured  by  gladness,  love — who  knows  what? 
Yes,  she  is  pretty — when  she  likes.  I  confess  the  woe- 
begone expression  she  puts  on  for  us  hardly  becomes  her. 


398  THE    HOUR. 

People  are  beginning  to  talk — many  were  whispering 
the  other  night  at  the  Broughton's  how  wretchedly  ill  and 
worn  Lady  Valentine  was  looking.  It  would  be  well  to 
speak  to  her  on  the  subject,  I  think,  Vane.  It  may  be 
pleasant  for  her  to  pose  in  the  part  of  the  heart-broken 
wife,  but  it  can  hardly  be  agreeable  for  you." 

Something — a  sulky  and  stifled  imprecation  it  sounds 
like — ground  out  between  closed  teeth,  is  the  answer. 
Miss  Routh  is  an  expert  mouser,  and  knows  how  to  tor- 
ture her  victim  well. 

"But  about  this  extravagant  story — what  of  that, 
Vane?" 

Miss  Routh  appears  to  have  the  ball  of  conversation 
in  her  own  hands,  and  to  unwind  at  her  pleasure. 

"  Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once.  We  may  dis- 
believe it,  but  we  cannot  afford  to  ignore  it.  And  others 
will  not,  if  we  do.  Once  let  it  get  abroad  that  you  are 
not  really  the  rightful  baronet — the  rightful — 

She  is  interrupted,  sullenly,  angrily,  by  her  com- 
panion. "I  do  not  propose  that  it  shall  get  abroad,"  he 
says. 

"  No  ?  But  that  is  this  Macdonald's  purpose  in  com- 
ing here.  How  are  you  to  prevent  it  ?  Your  wife  will 
see  him " 

"  My  wife  will  not  see  him.  She  shall  never  see  him 
again  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  breathlessly. 

"  Nothing  that  you  need  take  that  startled  tone  about," 
sulkily,  "  nothing  but  what  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  do. 
I  mean  to  remove  my  wife  out  of  his  way." 

"  Yes  ?"  eagerly.    "  How — where  ?" 

"  To  Flintbarrow.  My  mines  will  keep  me  there,  off 
and  on,  for  months — years,  if  I  like.  What  more  nat- 
tural,"  grimly,  "than  that  an  adoring  young  wife  should 
wish  to  remain  with  her  husband  ?  It  is  a  dismal  place,  I 
admit :  all  the  more  reison  why  she  should  enliven  my  en- 
forced exile  there.  The  old  stone  house  is  out  of  repair, 


THE    HOUR.  399 

but  we  can  furbish  up  two  or  three  rooms,  and  for  two 
loving  and  lately  united  hearts,  what  more  is  required  ? 
And  I  doubt  if  M.  Rene  Macdonald's  beautiful  Spanish, 
French,  Italian — what  was  it? — eyes  will  illuminate  the 
gloom  of  Flintbarrow  for  her,  though  they  were  twice  as 
as  sharp  they  are." 

There  is  silence  for  a  moment ;  they  pass  out  of  range 
in  their  slow  walk,  and  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale 
fills  up  the  pause.  For  Dolores — the  world  is  going 
round,  the  stars  are  reeling  ;  she  catches  hold  of  the 
hedge,  but  fails  to  hold  herself,  and  half  falls,  half  sinks 
in  a  dark  heap  in  the  dew-wet  grass. 

"  She  will  not  go  ;  I  tell  you,  she  will  not  go,"  are  the 
words  of  Camilla  she  hears  next.  "  She  has  a  great  deal 
of  latent  force  and  resolution,  once  aroused,  and  she 
fears  and  dislikes  and  distrusts  us  all.  Here  she  has 
friends — Colonel  Deering,  the  rector's  family,  the 
Broughtons,  Lady  Ratherripe — to  whom  she  may  appeal 
if  she  chooses.  There  she  will  have  no  one.  She  will 
not  go  !" 

"  Will  she  not  ?"  says  the  hard,  metallic  tones  of  the 
baronet.  "  Ah,  we  shall  see  !  You  taunted  me  before 
with  my  impotence  in  my  own  house — I  could  not  compel 
the  woman  Jemima  to  leave.  I  have  banished  the  maid  ; 
I  shall  banish  the  mistress  exactly  how,  and  when,  and 
where  I  please.  Meantime,  tell  Dorothy  nothing  of  this  ; 
I  don't  want  to  be  maddened  by  her  questions  and  com- 
ments. For  this  Macdonald " 

There  is  another  break;  they  pass  down  under  the 
willows.  She  who  crouches  under  the  hedge,  prone 
there  on  the  wet  grass,  makes  no  effort  to  overhear.  She 
has  heard  enough. 

"  I  shall  take  high-handed  measures  with  him  " — it  is 
the  voice  of  Vane  Valentine,  on  the  return  walk. 
"  There  is  a  law  to  punish  scoundrels  who  conspire  foi 
purposes  of  extortion  and  fraud.  This  Farrar — a  clever, 
clear-headed  rascal  as  I  kaow  him  of  old,  a  vagabond  by 


400  THE    HOUR. 

profession — has  addled  his  brains  reading  up  Roger 
Tichborne.  George  Valentine  was  drowned,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a  score  of  years  ago.  Men  don't  rise  from  the 
dead  after  this  fashion,  except  in  the  last  act  of  a  Porte 
St.  Martin  melodrama.  I-  don't  fear  them  with  my  cred- 
ulous fool  of  a  wife  out  of  the  way.  If  it  got  wind  that 
she  believed  the  story  and  was  on  their  side — well,  I  can 
hardly  trust  myself  to  say  what  I  might  not  do  in  such  a 
case.  At  Flintbarrow  she  will  be  safe ;  at  Flintbarrow 
there  are  no  long-eared  neighbors  to  listen,  no  prying 
eyes  to  see.  There  she  will  be,  perforce,  as  silent  as  in 
her  coffin.  And  there,  by  Heaven,  she  shall  remain 
until  she  swears  to  me  to  resign  all  complicity  or  belief 
in  this  plot — ay,  though  it  should  be  until  her  hair  is 
gray  !" 

"  She  will  not  go,"  retorts  the  quietly  resolute  voice  of 
Camilla  Routh  ;  "she  will  suspect  your  intentions,  she 
will  see  your  anger  against  her  in  your  face " 

"That  she  shall  not,"  grimly;  "she  shall  suspect 
nothing.  It  shall  be  made  a  family  affair.  You  will  all 
come  down."  They  pass  by  again.  A  long  moment, 
then  returning  steps  and  voices.  — "in  this  way.  I 
shall  use  finesse  until  I  get  her  there,"  with  a  laugh  that 
makes  even  Camilla  shiver.  "  I  shall  doubt  the  story,  of 
course,  decline  to  see  Farrar's  ambassador,  refuse  to  lis- 
ten to  a  word,  scout  the  whole  impossible  romance. 
Meantime  I  must  at  once  return  to  Cornwall,  and  it  is 
my  desire  that  you,  and  my  sister  and  my  wife  come 
down  after  me  to  see  the  place.  What  can  be  more  nat- 
ural ?  and  once  there " 

The  pause  that  follows  is  more  significant  than  any 
.  words.  Camilla's  low  laugh  comes  through  it  softly. 

"  An  excellent  idea.  Vane — I  did  not  give  you  credit 
for  so  much  strategy.  Of  course  Dorothy  is  to  be  kept 
in  the  dark  ?" 

"  Of  course.     She  has  a  sort  of  liking  for  my  wife 


THE    HOUR.  401 

and  might  blurt  out  something.     She  will  like  to  see  the 
old  place  again  ;  she  spent  her  youth  there,  you  know." 

"  How  long  are  we  to  remain,  she  and  I,  I  mean  ?" 

"A  week  or  two — as  you  like.  Of  course  I  would  be 
very  glad  to  keep  you  there,  Camilla,  but  you  would  not 
like  it.  It  is  deadly  dull ;  the  nearest  hamlet  is  Qve  miles 
off  ;  nothing  but  moors  behind,  stretching  up  to  the  sky, 
and  the  sea  in  front  melting  into  the  horizon.  A  week, 
I  dare  say,  will  be  as  much  of  it  as  you  will  be  able  to 
exist  through.  No  one  will  wonder  at  Lady  Valentine's 
remaining  ;  it  is  surely  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  that  she  should  remain  with  her  husband  under 
the  circumstances.  Now,  perhaps,  we  had  better  go  in. 
I  have  not  dined.  After  dinner  I  shall  speak  to  Dolores, 
and — the  rest  will  be  easy." 

They  pass  out  of  sight  and  hearing — this  time  there  is 
no  return.  The  nightingale,  on  the  thorn-bush  near,  has 
the  night  to  itself  and  its  sweet  love-song. 

Dolores  lies  where  she  has  sunk — her  face  hidden  in 
her  hands,  the  chill,  fresh-scented  grass,  cool  and  grateful 
to  her  heated  head.  She  is  numb  and  aching,  full  of  a 
cold,  deathly  torpor — "past  hope,  past  care,  past  help." 
Life  has  come  to  an  end — just  that.  "  And  now  I  live, 
and  now  my  life  is  done" — done — done  forever  and  for- 
ever ! 

After  a  time — not  long — though  it  seems  long  to  her, 
a  physical  sense  of  discomfort  and  cold  makes  her  get  up. 
Once  on  her  feet  she  stands  for  a  moment  dizzily — then 
turns  mechanically  and  walks  back  to  the  house.  It  is 
late  and  she  will  be  missed  ;  she  does  not  want  to  be 
missed,  she  is  hardly  conscious  of  more  then  that.  If  she 
suffers  she  hardly  realizes  it — in  soul  and  body  she  is  be- 
numbed. Much  pain,  many  blows,  have  dulled  for  the 
time  all  sense  of  agony. 

They  are  all  three  in  the  drawing-room  when  she 
enters,  Miss  Valentine  bending  over  her  never-ending 
account  books,  Miss  Routh  at  the  piano.  Her  fingers  are 


402  THE    HOUR. 

flying  over  the  keys  in  a  brilliant  galop,  she  laughs  up 
in  Sir  Vane's  face,  and  chatters  gayly  as  she  plays.  She 
looks  over  her  shoulder,  keenly,  at  the  new-comer,  her 
mocking  smile  is  most  derisive. 

"  How  pale  you  are,  Lady  Valentine,"  she  says : 
"whither  have  you  been  wandering  until  this  unearthly 
hour?  See  !  our  truant  has  returned  in  your  absence.  She 
has  pined  herself  to  a  shadow,  as  you  may  see  for  your- 
self, in  your  absence,  Vane.  You  must  take  her  with  you 
to  Cornwall,  I  think  !" 

Sir  Vane  rises  and  comes  forward,  quite  like  the  old 
Sir  Vane  of  Italian  days,  courteous,  if  cold,  and  takes  her 
hand. 

"You  do  look  pale,  Dolores.  You  should  not  stay 
about  in  the  night  air.  And  see — your  dress  is  quite  wet 
with  dew.  I  have  returned  to  answer  your  letter  in  per- 
son. Naturally  it  annoyed  me.  How  can  you  credit  such 
a  cock-and-bull  story  ?  Come  here  and  sit  down,  and 
let  us  talk  the  thing  over." 

He  leads  her  to  a  chair — wonderful  cordiality,  this  ! 
— and  takes  another  near  her.  It  is  quite  a  lover-like 
tableau — Miss  Routh's  gray-green  eyes  gleam  derisively 
as  she  glances.  Dolores  takes  up  a  screen  and  holds  it 
before  her  face. 

"  The  light  dazzles  my  eyes,"  she  says,  without  meet- 
ing his  glance. 

He  looks  at  her  suspiciously.  She  is  singularly, 
startlingly  pale  ;  her  eyes  look  wild,  and  dark,  and  dazed 
— what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  Has  this  story  and  Mac- 
donald's  coming  turned  her  brain  ?  But  his  voice  is 
smooth,  suspiciously  smooth  and  gentle,  when  bespeaks 
She  sits,  the  screen  held  well  before  her  face,  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  its  frisky  Japanese  figures,  but  seeing  none  of 
them.  His  voice  is  in  her  ear,  as  he  talks  steadily  on  and 
on — she  hears  its  tone,  but  is  scarcely  conscious  of  his 
words.  Miss  Routh's  gay  playing  fills  the  room  ;  she 
plays  the  "  Beautiful  Blue  Danube"--his  munotonoui 


THE    HOUR.  ,  403 

words  set  themselves  to  the  gay,  bright  music,  and  blend 
and  lose  themselves  in  the  melody — all  mingle  them- 
selves together  in  her  mind  ;  nothing  seems  clear  or  dis- 
tinct. 

Is  she  assenting  or  answering  at  all  to  what  he  says  ? 
Afterward  she  does  not  know.  He  seems  to  be  satisfied, 
at  least,  when  he  rises  at  last,  and  leaves  her,  crossing 
over  to  Camilla  Routh. 

"  Well  ?"  she  asks. 

"  It  is  well.  I  knew  it  would  be.  She  says  yes  to 
everything.  She  will  go." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  knows  what  she  is  saying,"  thinks 
Miss  Routh,  glancing  across  at  her.  "  She  sits  there  with 
the  fixed  vacant  look  of  a  sleep-walker.  She  had  it  when 
she  came  in.  What  if  she  heard  us  talking  out  there  ?  It 
is  very  possible.  Suppose  she  has — what  then  ?" 

She  looks  once  more,  trying  to  read  her  answer  in  that 
pale,  rigid  face.  As  she  looks  Dolores  rises,  and  with- 
out glancing  at  any  one,  or  speaking,  quits  the  room. 

"H'm!"  muses  Miss  Routh,  thoughtfully,  resuming 
her  performance,  "  something  odd  here.  The  end  is  not 
yet.  Your  wife  is  not  in  Cornwall  yet  awhile,  Sir  Vane 
Valentine." 

"  How  long  do  you  stay  with  us  ?"  she  asks  him, 
aloud. 

"  Until  to-morrow  only.  Apart  from  this  affair,  my 
presence  is  necessary  there.  By  being  on  the  spot  I  save 
no  end  of  money,  and  hurry  on  the  work.  You,  and 
Dorothy,  and  Dolores  will  follow — say  in  two  'days.  I 
suppose  it  would  look  a  trifle  abrupt  to  hurry  you  off 
with  me  to-morrow.  Meantime,  watch  her ;  no  more 
secret  meetings  with  Macdonald,  if  you  can  by  any 
means  prevent  them.  Come  to  Flintbarrow  without  fail 
on  the  third  day." 

"/will  come,"  responds  Miss  Routh.  "  But  whether 
your  wife  will  accompany  me  or  not,  cousin  mine,"  she 
adds  inwardly,  "  that  third  day  only  will  tell !" 


404  ADRIFT. 

CHAPTER     XXXVI. 
"ADRIFT,   AS  A   LEAF  IN  THE   STORM." 


EXT  morning,  by  the  earliest  train,  Sir  Vane 
Valentine  goes  back  to  Cornwall.  His  sister 
alone  sits  and  pours  out  his  coffee  at  the  hur- 
ried early  breakfast  that  precedes  depar- 
ture. Miss  Routh  is  not  an  early  bird,  and  Lady  Val- 
entine, usually  up  as  early  as  Dorothy  herself,  does  not 
appear.  Sir  Vane  does  not  seek  to  see  her  to  say  good- 
by.  He  is  nervous  and  ill  at  ease,  and  has  no  appetite. 
This  "fraudulent  plot,"  this  "trumped-up  conspiracy" 
disturbs  him  more  than  he  cares  to  show.  If  they  persist 
in  it,  and  drag  it  before  the  world,  a  horrible  exposure 
will  be  the  result.  And  even  if  their  defeat  is  ultimately 
secured,  the  legal  expenses  will  be  something  he  shud- 
ders to  contemplate.  With  what  it  feeds  on,  Sir  Vane's 
love  of  wealth  grows.  If  their  defeat  should  not  be  se- 
cured— but  even  in  thought  he  cannot  imagine  so  wild  a 
possibility  as  that.  Once  let  him  get  his  credulous,  ro- 
mantic wife  out  of  the  way,  safely  down  in  the  lonely, 
sea-girt  seclusion  of  Flintbarrow,  and  the  first  step  to- 
ward safety  will  have  been  taken.  She  is  as  wild  and 
shy  as  a  partridge — as  ready  to  take  flight.  He  will  not 
disturb  her  this  morning  ;  she  will  come  the  more  readily 
and  unsuspiciously  with  his  sister  and  cousin,  if  he  does 
not  seem  too  eager.  After  that  he  will  know  how  to 
deal  with  M.  Rene  Macdonald.  Silence  reigns  at  the 
hasty  meal.  Miss  Valentine  is  pleased  at  the  invitation 
to  return  to  her  native  Cornish  wilds  for  a  little,  but 
Miss  Valentine  is  not  diffusive  by  nature,  and  sits  grimly 
and  silently  behind  the  coffee-pot.  Desolate,  lonely,  shut 
out  from  the  world  by  far-stretching  moors  and  leagues 
of  dark  and  stormy  sea,  she  yet  loves  those  "thundering 
shores  of  Bude  and  Boss,"  and  would  willingly  resign 


ADRIFT.  405 

her  position  as  housekeeper  of  Manor  Valentine  to  re- 
turn thither  to  her  peaceful  life.  But  Vane  rules  it  other- 
wise, and  Vane's  will  has  ever  been  her  law. 

"  You  think  your  wife  will  be  willing  to  go.  Vane  ?' 
she  asks,  rather  abruptly,  just  before  he  departs. 

"Certainly;  why  not?"  he  returns,  sharply.  "A 
wife's  place  is  beside  her  husband.  She  needs  a  change, 
too,  and  bracing  air — the  visit  will  do  her  good.  Sea 
air  is  native  air  to  her  ;  she  was  brought  up  on  an 
island." 

"  Yes,"  Miss  Dorothy  assents,  thoughtfully,  "  she  looks 
as  if  she  needed  a  change.  She  eats  nothing,  and  fails 
away  to  a  shadow.  Still  I  doubt  if  Flintbarrow  will  help 
her,  or  if  she  will  like  the  place.  It  is  a  gloom)'  spot, 
you  must  admit,  for  a  young  girl  like  her,  Brother  Vane." 

"She  will  have  to  accustom  herself  to  its  gloom.  I 
shall  be  there  to  bear  her  company.  Do  you  wish  to  leave 
her  behind,  to  amuse  herself  flirting  with  Deering,  Do- 
rothy ?  Be  kind  enough  not  to  be  a  fool.  Here  is  the 
trap — good-by.  I  shall  expect  you  all  without  fail, 
remember,  on  Friday  afternoon." 

He  leaves  the  room,  banging  the  door  angrily  after 
him,  jumps  into  the  waiting  trap  ;  the  groom  gathers  up 
the  reins,  and  they  drive  off.  Three  pairs  of  feminine 
eyes  watch  the  departure,  with  very  different  looks — Miss 
Dorothy  Valentine,  grimly,  through  her  glasses  ;  Miss 
Routh,  with  an  inexplicable  smile;  and  two  somber  blue 
eyes,  dark  and  heavy-lidded  from  a  sleepless  night.  Miss 
Routh,  in  the  freshest  and  crispest  of  morning  toilets, 
indulges  in  a  stroll  through  the  village  before  luncheon, 
and  makes  a  call,  in  her  gracious  way,  on  the  hostess  of 
the  Ratherripe  Arms.  As  she  sits  by  the  open  parlor 
window,  framed  in  woodbine  and  roses.  Mr.  Macdonald, 
sketch-book  in  hand,  the  inevitable  cigar  between  his 
lips,  passes,  and  glances  in.  So  !  he  lingers  still,  then  ! 
She  must  watch  well,  and  discover  whether  another  secs-at 
interview  takes  place  before  the  departure  for  Cornwall 


406  ADRIFT. 

She  hastens  home  and  makes  inquiries.  Her  maid,  in 
structed  for  the  purpose,  has  kept  an  eye  on  my  lady's 
doings.  But  there  is  little  to  report.  My  lady  has  net 
appeared  at  all  ;  some  tea  and  toast  have  been  taken  up 
to  her,  and  she  has  declined  to  receive  a  call  from  Miss 
Valentine,  under  the  plea  of  headache.  The  maid  is  posi- 
tive my  lady  has  not  quitted  the  house  the  whole  morn- 
ing ;  she  has  sat,  with  her  sewing,  the  whole  forenoon  in 
one  of  the  rooms  near,  the  door  open,  and  has  heard  my 
lady  talking  to  the  housekeeper  in  her  own  sitting-room. 
Luncheon  hour  comes  ;  still  my  lady  appears  not. 
Miss  Routh  and  Miss  Valentine  partake  of  that  meal  in 
profound  silence.  Miss  Routh  never  needlessly  wastes 
her  energies  in  conversation  with  her  own  sex  ;  she  eats 
her  luncheon  with  excellent  appetite,  and  thinks  her  own 
thoughts,  a  half  smile  hovering  around  her  lips.  What 
is  my  lady  about  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room  ?  She 
has  no  faith  in  the  headache.  The  conviction  is  forcing 
itself  upon  her  that  her  talk  with  Vane  in  the  Willow 
Walk  has  been  overheard.  Dolores  looked  as  if  stricken 
by  some  desperate  blow  when  she  came  in — what  else 
could  have  given  her  that  white,  wild  face  ?  Well,  and 
what  then?  If  she  goes,  it  means  imprisonment  for  an 
indefinite  period  in  the  dreariest  old  house  in  the  world  ; 
if  she  refuses  to  go,  it  means,  of  course,  secret  meetings 
with  her  old  lover,  open  meetings  with  her  new  one, 
Colonel  Deering,  either  way  destructive  for  her  rival. 
On  the  whole,  perhaps,  she  half  hopes  it  may  mean  re- 
fusal to  gc.  A  few  of  these  stolen  assignations  in 
secluded  nooks  in  (he  park,  and — it  may  be  possible  for 
Vane  to  procure  a  divorce.  Lucy,  her  maid,  is  a  spy  by 
nature,  and  the  only  servant  in  the  house  who  dislikes 
Lady  Valentine.  Lucy  will  watch  well,  and  who  knows 

— who  knows 

He  is  very  handsome,"  Miss  Routh  thinks,  a  greenish, 
evil  glitter  in  her  brooding  eyes,  "  and  she  loved  him  long 
before  she  knew  Vane,  and  woi'ld  have  married  him  but 


ADRIFT.  407 

for  old  Madam  Valentine.  Of  cour?e  she  is  in  love 
with  him  still,  and  of  course,  also,  she  hates  her  husband. 
If  she  overheard  their  conversation  what  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  wish  to  see  him  again,  and  tell  him, 
and  seek  sympathy  and  consolation.  And  Lucy  will 
watch.  How  will  it  sound? — her  old  lover  comes  to 
Valentine — I  surprise  them  in  the  most  secluded  nook  of 
the  park-land  ;  she  refuses  to  join  her  husband  in  Corn- 
wall, though  Dorothy  and  myself  go  ;  she  and  this  lover 
still  have  private  meetings  in  our  absence.  Will  it  be 
enough,  colored  as  Lucy  will  color  it  ?  A  divorce  would 
free  him — he  hates  the  bond  as  much  as  she  does,  and 
once  free  he  will  marry  me.  As  for  the  dead-alive  story 
this  Signore  Macdonald  tells,  I  do  not  believe  it.  Ca- 
milla, Lady  Valentine!  Well,  since  Colonel  Deering  is 
not  to  be  captured,  it  must  suffice.  For  her — she  will  go 
back  to  the  outer  darkness,  with  her  Spanish-eyed,  hand- 
some young  lover,  and  be  heard  of  no  more  !" 

Colonel  Deering  calls  before  dinner,  and  is  invited  to 
stay  and  dine  en  famille.  He  accepts — he  has  come  for 
that,  indeed,  and  for  a  glimpse  of  his  enchantress.  Miss 
Routh  is  maliciously  willing  to  accommodate  him.  But 
will  she  appear  ?  Yes — just  as  dinner  is  announced, 
Lady  Valentine  comes  in  and  takes  her  accustomed 
place. 

Camilla  Routh  looks  at  her  curiously.  She  is  dressed 
in  pale  pink,  and  if  she  is  whiter  than  usual,  the  delicate 
rosy  tint  of  her  robes  lends  a  sort  of  illusive  glow,  to 
eyes  not  too  inquisitively  alert.  But  she  is  very  pale, 
and  except  when  directly  addressed  scarcely  speaks 
throughout  the  meal.  The  conversation  turns  on  the 
trip  to  Cornwall  ;  the  colonel  is  profuse  in  his  regrets 
that  even  for  a  few  days  they  are  to  lose  the  ladies  of 
Valentine,  but  Camilla  notices  that  Lady  Valentine  holds 
aloof  from  the  subject,  and  expresses  no  feeling  in  the 
matter,  one  way  or  the  other.  All  Colonel  Dcering's 
efforts  to  draw  her  into  the  general  talk  fails  ;  her  replies 


408  ADRIFT. 

are  monosyllabic,  her  eyes  scarcely  leave  her  plate. 
What  is  she  thinking  of?  Camilla  Routh  wonders,  with 
that  pale  fixed,  unsmiling  face. 

After  dinner  they  stroll  out  into  the  grounds,  silvery 
and  sweet,  in  the  starry  dusk  ;  that  is  to  say,  Colonel 
Deering  and  Miss  Routh  do.  Dolores  does  not  join 
them.  She  sits  by  one  of  the  open  windows,  her  hands 
lying  listlessly  in  her  lap,  the  somber  look  that  never 
used  to  be  there,  that  is  growing  habitual  to  them,  in  her 
blue  eyes.  Miss  Dorothy,  at  another  window,  goes  prac- 
tically over  the  week's  housekeeping,  and  checks  the 
tradespeople's  accounts.  Later,  when  they  return,  Ca- 
milla goes  to  the  piano,  according  to  custom,  but  all 
through  the  musical  storm  that  follows,  and  until  the 
colonel  perforce  departs,  she  never  quits  her  place,  her 
eyes  never  leave  the  dim  starry  landscape,  the  whispering 
trees,  the  falling  night.  She  is  pressed  by  him  to  sing, 
but  refuses,  still  in  the  same  listless  way,  and  the  hand 
she  gives  him  at  parting  is  cold  and  lifeless.  "  It  is  good- 
night, you  know,"  he  says,  holding  it  in  his  close  clasp 
"  I  shall  ride  over  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after  I  shall 
at  least  have  the  pleasure  of  coming  to  say  good-speed." 

She  makes  no  answer,  and  when  his  briefer  adieus 
have  been  made  to  the  other  two  ladies,  and  he  turns  foi 
a  last  glance  at  her,  he  finds  she  has  already  gone. 

Thus  far  the  watchful  Camilla  has  been  foiled;  there 
have  been  no  further  meetings  with  lovers,  in  public  or  in 
private.  All  next  day  she  keeps  up  her  system  of  private 
espionage,  but  with  the  same  result.  She  can  obtain  no 
clew  to  Dolores'  hidden  thoughts,  and  she  certainly 
leaves  the  house  to  meet  no  one.  Colonel  Deering  calls 
according  to  promise,  but  my  lad)'  is  engaged,  and  does 
not  see  him.  Her  conduct  these  last  two  days  is  decorum 
itselJ.  Well,  time  will  tell ;  to-morrow  at  nine  they  start, 
and  Camilla,  by  this,  has  worked  herself  into  a  fever  of 
curiosity  to  know  how  all  this  is  to  end. 

This  last  day  is  spent  in  packing.     Lady  Valentine 


ADRIFT.  409 

has  no  maid  ;  she  has  declined  all  successors  to  Jemima 
Ann.  Miss  Routh  kindly  presses  upon  her  the  services 
of  Lucy  ;  the  offer  is  declined  with  cold  thanks.  Still  not 
a  sigh,  a  hint,  a  look  to  show  whether  it  is  to  be  Corn- 
wall or  not. 

The  last  night  comes — goes,  and  the  morning  is  here. 
An  early  breakfast  has  been  prepared.  At  eight  o'clock 
Miss  Routh  and  Miss  Valentine,  "booted  and  spurred" 
for  this  trip,  appear  in  the  breakfast-room.  One  hasty 
glance  from  Camilla's  green  eyes,  her  heart  quickening 
expectantly  its  calm  beating — Dolores  is  not  there. 
"Where  is  Lady  Valentine?"  demands  Miss  Dorothy; 
"is  she  not  ready?  Go  up,  Dobson,  and  see.  Tell  her 
we  have  but  just  fifteen  minutes  for  breakfast  as  it  is. 
Make  haste !"  Dobson  goes — returns,  and  alone. 
"  Well  ?"  Miss  Dorothy  demands,  with  asperity. 

"Please,  'm,"  says  Dobson,  breathless,  "my  lady's 
compliments,  'm,  and  she  ain't  a-goin' !" 

"What!" 

"  Which  it's  a  bad  headache,  'm,  and  she  ain't 
hup.  She  says  don't  wait  for  her,  if  you  please,  'm. 
She  says  she  ain't  able  to  go  nowheres  to-day,  please,  'm." 

Miss  Dorothy  adjusts  her  double  eye-glass  more  firmly 
on  her  Roman  nose,  and  glances  sternly  at  Camilla  Routh. 
That  young  lady  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  sips  her  tea, 
a  gleam  of  exultation  in  her  cat-like  eyes.  "  What  does 
this  mean,  .Camilla  ?" 

"You  had  better  go  and  ask,  Dorothy.  You  need  not 
glare  at  me  in  that  blood-freezing  fashion — /  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  Impossible  to  account  for  the  vagaries 
of  our  charming  Dolores.  Go  up  and  see  for  yourself, 
if  you  are  curious.  It  may  be  as  she  says,  she  may  pos- 
sibly have  a  headache.  Meantime  I  will  finish  my  break- 
fast." 

She  pours  herself  a  second  cup  of  tea.  But  her  hand 
shakes,  and  her  pulse  beats  quick  and  high.  Not  going, 
after  all  !  Miss  Dorothy,  much  perturbed,  takes  the  ad- 
18 


4io  ADRIFT. 

vice,  and  marches  up  to  the  chamber  of  her  sister-in-law 
Entering,  she  finds  Dolores  in  semi-darkness,  and  Dolores 
herself,  lying  pale  among  her  pillows.  Her  eyes  are 
closed,  her  hands  are  clasped  above  her  head,  her  fair 
hair  is  tossed  about — so  lying  she  looks  so  wan,  so  worn, 
so  really  ill,  that  Dorothy  is  startled  and  alarmed. 

"  My  dear  Dolores,"  she  exclaims,  "what  is  this?  Is 
it  possible  you  are  really  ill  ?" 

The  blue  eyes  open,  and  look  up  at  her.  The  dark 
circles  that  tell  of  sleepless  nights  surround  them. 

"  Not  really  ill,  only  out  of  sorts  and  altogether  un- 
fitted for  a  railway  journey.  My  head  aches.  You  will 
please  start  without  me.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  go  to 
Cornwall  to-day." 

"But  Vane  said " 

"  I  know,"  quickly,  "  he  could  not  foresee  this.  Indeed 
my  head  aches  horribly  ;  I  was  awake  all  night.  Do  not 
stay  for  me — with  a  few  hours'  perfect  quiet  I  shall  do 
very  well.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  and  Miss  Routh 
should  disappoint  him.  Do  not  lose  your  train  by  wait- 
ing here.  A  few  hours'  repose,  and  I  will  be  quite  well 
again.  Your  brother  will  be  angry  if  you  disappoint  him, 
you  know." 

This  is  so  true  that  Miss  Valentine  winces.  She  stands 
more  thoroughly  at  a  loss  than  ever  before  in  her  life.  To 
go,  or  not  to  go,  that  is  the  question.  Which  will  anger 
Vane  most — to  go  to  him  and  leave  Dolores  behind,  or 
to  remain  with  her,  and  disappoint  him  ?  His  irritation 
is  certain  either  way.  While  she  stands  irresolute, 
Camilla  comes  fluttering  gayly  to  the  rescue. 

"  111,  Lady  Valentine  ?  So  sorry.  So  very  inopportune. 
Cousin  Vane  will  be  so  disappointed.  Still,  Dorothy,  it 
will  not  do  for  us  to  disappoint  him  as  well.  His  wishes 
were  most  positive,  you  may  remember,  to  go  to-day  with- 
out fail.  You  had  better  not  linger.  We  will  tell  him  of 
Dolores'  indisposition,  and  of  course  he  will  come  for 
her  to-morrow.  So  sorry  to  leave  you  quite  alone — such 


ADRIFT.  41 1 

a  bore  for  you — but  it  is  only  for  one  day.     Come,  Dor- 
othy, we  shall  certainly  miss  our  train." 

"You  really  think,  then,  Camilla,  that  Vane  would 
prefer  us  to  go  and  leave  Dolores?"  asks  the  perplexed 
Dorothy.  She  has  much  faith  in  Camilla  Routh's  opinion 
where  Vane  is  concerned,  much  faith  in  her  influence 
over  him. 

"Certainly  I  do,"  Miss  Routh  responds,  promptly,  "i 
not  only  am  sure  he  would  prefer  it,  but  that  he  will  be 
alarmed,  as  well  as  angry,  if  we  do  not.  Adieu,  Dolores, 
cherie — be  ready  to  come  with  Vane  to-morrow.  Now, 
Dorothy !"  Her  tone  is  sharp,  she  moves  away  impul- 
sively, she  hurries  off  the  still  doubtful,  still  disposed-to- 
linger  Dorothy  before  there  is  time  for  further  discussion. 
The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  they  are  in,  and  whirling 
rapidly  to  the  station.  There  is  time  to  get  tickets,  to 
take  their  places  in  the  compartment,  and  no  more.  The 
door  shuts  upon  them,  the  whistle  shrieks,  and  they  are 
flying  along  Cornwall-ward  almost  before  Dorothy  Val- 
entine has  had  time  to  catch  her  bewildered  breath. 

"  We  have  done  wrong  to  leave  her,  Camilla,"  she 
gasps,  flurried  and  breathless.  "We  might  have  tele- 
graphed to  Vane,  and  waited  until  to-morrow.  We  have 
done  wrong.  Vane  will  be  very  angry." 

Miss  Routh  laughs — a  laugh  neither  mirthful  nor 
pleasant  to  hear.  "Yes,  Dorothy,"  she  says,  sweetly,  "I 
think  he  will.  But  not  with  us.  We  have  obeyed  orders. 
Yes,  he  will  be  angry,  and  I  think — I  think  with  reason." 

"Then  why,"  demands  Miss  Valentine,  with  acerbity, 
"did  you  urge  me  to  come?  I  would  have  stayed  with 
her,  but  you  said " 

"  I  said  Vane  had  ordered  us  not  to  stay,  and  I  said 
truly.  We  have  done  as  commanded — he  has  no  right  or 
reason  to  find  fault  with  us.  To-morrow  is  but  one  more 
day — to-morrow  he  will  return  for  her,  and  then " 

"  Well — and  then  ?"  says  the  elder  woman,  struck  by 
the  strange  look  Camilla  Routh's  face  wears. 


412  ADRIFT. 

"And  then  he  will  bring  her  to  Flintbarrow— -perhaps" 
answers  Camilla,  with  her  most  suggestive  smile.   - 
******* 

Dolores'  excuse  has  been  something  more  than  a  mere 
excuse  ;  her  head  does  ache  with  a  dull,-  persistent  pain. 
But  as  the  carriage  rolls  away  she  gets  up  and  dresses — 
not  in  one  of  her  pretty,  much-embroidered  morning 
robes,  but  in  the  plainest  traveling  suit  her  wardrobe 
contains.  For  she  is  going  on  a  journey  to-day,  though 
not  to  Cornwall — a  very  long  journey,  and  Manor  Val- 
entine is  to  know  her  no  more.  This  is  the  end.  All 
she  can  bear  she  has  borne  ;  flight  alone  is  left.  Death 
were  better  than  what  awaits  her  in  that  desolate  house 
down  by  the  Cornish  sea.  Life  by  the  side  of  Vane  Val- 
entine is  at  an  end  for  all  time.  Outrage,  insult,  sneers, 
neglect,  have  been  her  portion  from  the  first  in  this  hated 
house — this  house  to  which  neither  she  nor  the  man  who 
is  her  husband  has  any  longer  claim.  To-day  she  quits 
it  to  return  no  more.  She  has  thought  it  out,  over  and 
over  again,  during  these  two  silent,  secluded  days  ;  no 
one  shall  know  whither  she  goes,  not  even  Rene — least  of 
all  Rene.  He  is  still  at  the  village  inn,  she  is  aware  ;  but 
she  will  neither  see  him  nor  write  to  him.  She  is  going 
to  her  one  faithful  friend,  Jemima  Ann,  waiting  for  the 
answer  to  her  letter  in  her  London  lodgings,  and  with 
her  she  will  return  to  America.  What  she  will  do  when 
she  gets  there  she  does  not  yet  know  ;  time  enough  for 
that  ;  at  present  she  has  but  one  thought,  escape,  before 
i  her  husband  comes.  To-morrow  night  he  will  be  here, 
angry,  suspicious,  more  sullen  and  despotic  than  ever  ; 
her  escape  must  be  secured  before  that  time.  And  once 
a\vay,  no  power  on  earth  shall  compel  her  to  return. 
Come  what  may — death  itself — she  will  never  return  to 
this  life  from  which  she  flies. 

She  dresses.  She  packs  a  satchel  with  some  needful 
things  ;  she  takes  the  jewels  given  her  by  Madam  Valen- 
tine, and  money  sufficient  for  all  present  needs.  If  these 


ADRIFT.  413 

things  are  not  hers,  they  are  not  at  least  the  property  of 
Vane  Valentine.  If  M.  Paul  is  their  rightful  owner,  M. 
Paul  is  her  true  and  generous  friend.  Then  she  rings 
for  tea  and  toast,  and  makes  an  effort  to  eat.  Strength 
is  necessary — courage,  presence  of  mind.  Hope  is  rising 
within  her.  Once  free,  once  with  Jemima,  once  far 
from  this  house,  once  across  the  ocean,  once  fairly  out 
of  the  power  of  her  tyrant  and  Camilla  Routh,  and  she 
fears  nothing — neither  work,  nor  poverty,  nor  homeless- 
ness.  She  will  be  free  !  Her  heart  beats  at  the 
thought.  A  few  weeks  more  of  this  life  would  drive 
her  mad. 

The  house  is  very  still,  in  its  long  forenoon  repose. 
The  servants  are  engaged  in  their  various  duties — the 
watchful  Lucy  has  gone  with  her  mistress.  No  one 
notices  the  quiet  figure  that,  vailed  and  cloaked,  witli 
hand-bag  and  shawl  strap,  leaves  the  house  by  a  side 
entrance,  and  disappears  amid  the  thick  growth  of  the 
park-lane.  She  takes  the  short  cut  to  the  station,  along 
which  Rene  came,  and  found  her  the  other  day — there  is 
a  London  up-train  at  eleven-fifty.  At  the  turn  where 
the  path  branches  off  and  the  house  disappears,  she 
turns  for  a  moment,  aversion,  hatred,  strong  in  her  face, 
and  looks  back.  It  is  a  leaden,  sunless  day,  threatening 
rain — the  gray  old  Manor  looks  grayer  and  more  grue- 
some than  she  has  ever  seen  it.  How  utterly  miserable 
from  the  very  first  she  has  been  there  !  With  a  shudder 
she  turns  away,  pulls  her  vail  over  her  face,  and  hurries 
on. 

She  is  in  excellent  time.  She  takes  her  ticket,  and, 
hidden  behind  her  thick  vail,  waits.  No  one  she  knows 
is  at  the  station — the  village  folks  have  seen  very  little 
of  her  during  her  brief  reign  at  the  Manor  House. 
Presently  the" train  rushes  in-,  she  slips  into  an  empty 
carriage  ;  a  moment  more  and  she  is  speeding  on  hex 
London  way — flying  from  Valentine — free  ! 


414  GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 

CHAPTER     XXXVII. 
"AFTER  LONG  GRIEF  AND  PAIN." 


HE  close  of  a  murky  London  day.  Over  the 
chimney-pots  a  sky  of  dullest  drab  is  settling 
down  ;  from  the  court  below  the  voices  of 
women  and  children  come  up.  In  her  room 
— bedroom  and  sitting-room  in  one — Jemima  Ann  leans 
out  of  the  little  window  and  tries  to  catch  a  breath  of 
air,  where  air  in  this  pea-soup  atmosphere  there  is  none 
On  her  knees,  her  folded  arms  on  the  sill,  dejection  in 
her  face,  she  watches  the  matrons  laden  with  babies  in 
arms,  comparing  notes  concerning  the  'eat  of  the  past 
day,  and  the  tattered  children  at  play  on  the  flags.  For 
she  is  homesick  and  lonely,  and  longing  for  a  word  of 
farewell  from  her  darling  ere  she  starts  on  her  long 
return  journey  across  the  Atlantic.  That  answer  was 
due  two  days  ago,  and  has  not  yet  arrived.  She  is  suffi- 
ciently well  provided  with  money — Dolores  has  ever 
been  a  generous  mistress — but  she  feels  this  week  must 
perforce  bring  her  waiting  to  a  close. 

She  so  longs  to  get  away  from  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  this  great  grimy  city,  from  these  innumerable  strange 
faces,  from  the  land  that  holds  the  one  being  she  loves 
best  on  earth,  and  yet  keeps  her  so  far  away.  She  will 
go  home — nay,  she  has  no  home — but  to  New  York — it 
will  seem  home  to  her  after  London — and  take  a  new 
service  there.  If  Miss  Snowball  would  but  write  that 
good-by  she  so  hungers  to  hear.  All  day  long  she  has 
been  listening  for  the  postman's  knock — listening  in 
vain.  Even  the  illustrated  "  penny  dreadful  "  she  has 
gone  out  and  bought,  with  its  four  pages  of  thrilling 
narrative,  has  failed  to  interest  her.  And  now,  disap- 
pointed and  discouraged,  hope  has  left  her  for  the  day. 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  415 

She  does  not  blame  her  young  lady — it  is  the  doing  of 
Sir  Vane  and  those  two  cantankerous  old  maids.  Only 
she  feels  it  will  go  nigh  to  break  her  heart  altogether  if 
she  has  to  leave  London  without  a  word. 

The  gray  evening  grows  grayer ;  the  leaden  sky 
threatens  speedy  rain.  The  mothers  and  most  of  the 
children  go  indoors  to  supper.  Boys  from  the  nearest 
public-house  flit  about  in  the  obscurity  with  pots  of  beer. 
There  is  a  savory  odor  in  the  thick  air  as  of  toasting 
muffins,  and  fizzling  sausages,  tripe  and  onions,  and 
other  dainty  dishes  to  go  with  foamy  flagons  of  bitter 
beer.  Jemima  Ann  absorbs  sights,  and  sounds,  and 
smells,  dreamily,  and  opines  that  she  will  light  her 
candle,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  another  try  at  the 
illustrated  penny  work  of  light  literature.  The  sound 
of  wheels  ;  of  a  cab  drawn  up  at  the  entrance  of  the 
court  fails  to  attract  her  notice  ;  it  is  only  the  sight  of  a 
lady  entering,  and  making  her  way  in  the  dingy  dusk 
down  the  court,  that  rouses  her  out  of  her  apathy. 

A  lady,  even  in  that  murky  light — slender  and  tall — 
who  pauses  to  ask  her  way  of  the  children.  Jemima 
Ann  hears  the  answer,  "Up  them  stairs— three  pair  front 
— there  she  is  at  the  window,"  and  starts  wildly  to  her 
feet.  Is  it — can  it  be  possible  that  this  is  the  answer  to 
her  letter  ?  She  dashes  to  the  door,  opens  it,  and  en- 
counters on  the  landing  a  slender  young  lady,  dressed 
in  dark  gray.  An  oil  lamp  swings  in  the  passage  ;  its 
dim  light  falls  on  the  face  of  her  visitor — a  very,  very 
pale  and  weary  face,  but  a  face  whose  like,  Jemima  Ann 
rapturously  thinks,  the  wide  earth  again  does  not  hold. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear  Miss  Snowball  !"  she 
cries  out,  in  a  transport  of  amaze  and  joy.  She  has  her 
in  her  little  room,  the  door  shut,  seated  in  a  chair,  she 
herself  kneeling  at  her  feet,  her  arms  clasped  about  her 
crying,  hugging,  all  in  a  breath. 

"Oh  !  my  dearest  darling  Miss  Snowball  !  To  think 
of  your  coming  yourself  all  this  long  way,  of  finding 


4i 6  GRIEF    AND    PAIN, 

out  poor  Jemima  Ann,  of  traveling  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  miles  to  say  good-by  to  your  poor  girl  who  loves 
you  so  much." 

"Dear  Jemima,"  her  young  mistress  says,  her  head 
drooping  wearily  on  Jemima's  shoulder,  a  stifled  sob  in 
her  tired  voice,  "  not  good-by.  I  have  come  to  stay,  if 
you  will  have  me,  Jemima  Ann." 

"  Miss  Snowball  !  My  sweetest  Miss  Snowball — to 
stay  !" 

"  To  stay.  I  have  run  away,  Jemima.  I  am  not  going 
back — never,  never,  never  more  !  No — do  not  ask  me 
questions  to-night ;  I  am  tired,  so  tired.  I  cannot  talk. 
Give  me  some  tea,  please,  if  you  can,  and  let  me  lie  down 
somewhere  and  rest.  To-morrow  I  will  tell  you  every- 
thing." Utter  weariness,  heart-stricken  pain,  are  in  her 
voice.  Jemima  Ann  starts  up,  full  of  concern  and  re- 
pentance. In  a  moment  the  candle  is  lit,  and  she  is  re- 
moving her  young  lady's  hat  and  mantle.  Now  she  sees 
how  thin  she  has  grown,  how  pale,  how  worn — a  very 
shadow  of  the  brightly  beautiful  "  Miss  Snowball  "  of 
hardly  a  year  ago. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  dear,"  she  murmurs,  tears  rising  to  her 
eyes,  as  she  kisses  Dolores'  listless  hand.  "  What  a  hard 
hard  time  you  must  have  had." 

"Yes,  hard — heart-breaking,"  Dolores  answers  in  the 
same  spiritless  way,  "  but  I  am  only  tired  out  now,  Jem- 
ima, for  all  that  is  over — over  forever ;  I  am  here  with  you, 
and  we  will  part  no  more  my  one  true  and  loving  friend." 

She  drops  her  head  against  the  side  of  the  upright 
wooden  chair,  and  rests  so,  with  closed  eyes,  pallid,  spent. 
Full  of  a  great  compassion,  Jemima  bustles  about,  up- 
stairs and  down,  brings  tea,  sets  the  table,  goes  out  and 
returns  with  a  crusty  loaf,  a  pat  of  fresh  butter,  water- 
cress, and  a  cold  roast  fowl.  These  refreshments  she 
arranges  in  the  old  deft,  neat  way,  and  then  gently  sum- 
mons her  beloved  guest.  In  her  hard,  stiff-backed  chair, 
Lady  Valentine  is  half  asleep,  thoroughly  fatigued  and 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  417 

worn  out.  The  little  supper  looks  tempting,  and  she  is 
hungry,  and  eats  with  a  relish  she  has  not  felt  for  weeks. 
She  is  free — her  Bastile  is  left  behind — that  is  the  thought 
that  gives  zest  to  the  viands.  After  supper,  refreshed 
and  invigorated,  she  is  ready  for  a  talk,  but  Jemima, 
with  gentle  insistance,  puts  it  off  until  to-morrow. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,  Miss  Snowball;  I  am  in  no 
hurry  to  go  now  that  you  are  here  ;  to-morrow  will  be 
time  enough.  Have  a  good  sleep  to-night,  and  tell  me 
all  about  it  after  breakfast.  Mine  is  a  harder  bed  than 
you  are  used  to,  but  it  is  as  clean  as  clean,  and  after  ten 
there  is  no  quieter  or  respectabler  court  in  London  than 
this.  So  undress  and  lie  down.  You  do  look  just  fit  to 
drop." 

Dolores  obeys  passively.  She  is  completely  wearied 
with  her  journey,  and  she  slept  none  last  night.  She  lies 
down  on  the  little  hard,  clean  bed,  and  holds  out  her 
hands,  like  a  child,  to  her  faithful  attendant. 

"Dear  Jemima,"  she  says,  "what  would  I  do  without 
you  ?  Kiss  me  good-night." 

"  My  own,  own  darling  Miss  Snowball  !" 

Jemima  says  "  Oh  !"  under  her  breath,  watching  the 
sweet,  wan  face,  the  tired  blue  eyes  slowly  closing,  "to 
think  there  should  be  a  man  in  the  world  hard  and  cruel 
to  you  !  But  Sir  Vane  Valentine  is  not  a  man — he  is  a 
brute !" 

And  thus  the  answer  to  Jemima's  letter  comes. 

Next  day  dawns  foggy  and  raw.  The  rain  is  patter- 
ing on  the  window-panes,  when,  quite  late,  Dolores  opens 
her  eyes  on  this  mortal  life  in  the  "three  pair  front." 
Outside  there  is  wind,  and  wet,  and  mud,  and  fog  ;  in- 
side, a  brisk  little  fire  blazes  in  the  grate — a  glow  of  hos- 
pitable warmth,  and  welcome,  and  sunshine,  in  itself — an 
aromatic  odor  of  coffee  perfumes  the  air,  hot  rolls  are  on 
the  table,  and  her  clothes,  all  brushed  and  fresh,  lie  on  a 
chair  beside  her.  No  one  is  in  the  room,  as  she  gets  up, 
half-bewildered  at  first  by  the  strangeness  of  it  all,  but 
18* 


4i  8  GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 

wonderfully  strengthened  by  her  long  sleep,  and  proceeds 
to  dress.  She  has  nearly  finished  when  Jemima  enters, 
rosy  with  rain  and  rapid  walking,  laden  with  eggs,  and 
marmalade,  and  cool,  pink  radishes. 

"Now,  now,  Jemima,"  Dolores  remonstrates,  laugh- 
ing, the  matutinal  greeting  over,  "this  will  never  do. 
What  sort  of  a  gourmand  do  you  take  me  for,  that  you 
must  run  outjn  the  rain  like  this  in  search  of  delicacies  ? 
I  shall  need  no  tempting  after  this,  remember — my  appe- 
tite has  not  been  left  behind  at  Manor  Valentine.  And 
you  are  not  to  waste  your  substance  in  riotous  living  for 
me.  We  are  going  to  get  on  plainly  and  economically, 
you  know,  and  save  our  money  and  return  to  dear  New 
York  as  soon  as  may  be.  And  I  shall  wait  upon  myself 
after  this — we  are  friends  from  henceforth,  recollect, 
friends  and  equals — no  more  mistress  and  maid.  I  shall 
never  be  any  one's  mistress  as  long  as  I  live  again.  '  My 
lady'  is  dead  and  buried  down  there  in  the  dreariness  of 
Valentine.  This  is  Snowball — your  friend — who  has  no 
friend  in  the  world  to  whom  she  can  turn  but  you,  dear 
old  Jim  !" 

Jemima  Ann  laughs  gleefully.  To  see  her  darling 
with  the  old  brightness  in  her  face,  the  old  blitheness  in 
her  tones,  to  know  she  is  to  part  from  her  no  more — it  is 
bliss — she  asks  no  more  of  fate. 

They  breakfast  well  and  leisurely.  Over  the  coffee 
and  rolls  Dolores  tells  her  story — all  of  her  story  at  least 
that  she  can,  or  may  ever,  bring  herself  to  reveal.  There 
are  things  she  will  r<t?ver  be  able  to  think  of,  much  less 
speak  of,  without  a  pang  of  the  old  bitterness  and  cruel 
pain.  Jemima  listens — lost  in  a  medley  of  wrath  and 
pity,  and  anger  and  love.  Dearest  dear  Miss  Snowball ! 
that  brute  Sir  Vane  !  green-eyed  cat,  Miss  Routh  !  that 
sour  old  Tartar,  Miss  Valentine  !  Ah !  it  is  a  blessed 
escape  to  have  cut  the  cord,  and  got  away  from  that  dis- 
mal old  house. 

Miss  Snowball  has  done  right — of  course  she  has  done 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  419 

right.  What  !  go  and  be  buried  alive  in  a  drearier  dun- 
geon even  than  Manor  Valentine,  with  Sir  Vane  for  her 
jailer,  and  Miss  Routh  exulting  and  triumphant !  Better 
poverty,  better  hard  work,  better  the  worst  that  life  can 
bring  than  such  death  in  life  as  that. 

They  sit  together  through  the  long,  dull  rainy  day, 
and  discuss  their  plans.  It  will  not  do  to  depart  at  once 
• — they  are  safer,  hidden  away  here,  in  this  obscure  nook 
of  the  great  city,  than  in  seeking  further  flight.  Sir  Vane 
will  search  for  his  wife,  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  in 
his  efforts  to  trace  her.  He  will  move  the  whole  detective 
force,  and  spend  his  beloved  money  lavishly  to  capture 
her  if  he  ean.  If  he  can  !  Dolores'  eyes  flash,  her  hands 
clench  at  the  thought. 

"  I  will  die  first !"  she  cries,  and  she  means  it.  Death 
holds  no  terror  so  great  as  the  terror  of  returning  to  that 
horrible  life.  "  I  will  never  go  back  !"  she  exclaims  ; 
"he  may  do  what  he  likes.  The  law  that  takes  the  part 
of  the  husband  always  against  the  wife,  may  do  its  utmost. 
I  will  bear  all  things,  but  I  will  never  go  back." 

They  decide,  therefore,  that  for  the  present  masterly 
inactivity  will  be  savest.  After  an  interval  of  a  month  or 
so,  under  assumed  names  and  more  or  less  disguised,  they 
may  go  to  Liverpool,  or  cross  to  Havre,  and  take  passage 
for  New  York.  Once  there  life  will  begin  anew,  a  life  of 
labor  and  much  privation,  no  doubt,  of  loneliness  and 
discomfort  very  likely,  but  they  will  be  together  and  free. 
That  is  everything  after  the  life  of  the  past  year.  Work  ! 
Work  is  nothing,  Dolores  thinks,  with  eagerly  flashing 
eyes  ;  she  is  young,  she  is  strong,  she  is  full  of  confidence 
in  herself,  her  tastes  are  simple,  her  wants  few.  In  New 
York,  and  together,  they  will  be  quite,  quite  happyagain. 
If  only  the  good  time  were  nearer,  and  they  were  on 
their  way. 

"  Some  people  are  born  to  be  obscure,  and  some  have 
obscurity  thrust  upon  them,"  she  says,  laughingly,  to 
Jemima.  "  I  am  of  the  former.  The  happiest  time  of  my 


420  GRIEF    AND    PAIA\ 

life  was -on  Dree  Island,  in  a  Holland  frock,  helping 
Ma'am  Weesy  to  shell  peas  and  toast  the  bread,  and  dig- 
ging for  clams,  and  scouring  Bay  Chalette  in  a  batteau 
with  the  boys.  What  a  lifetime  ago  all  that  seems  now. 
To  go  back  and  live  in  the  little  white  cottage,  with  the 
solitude  of  the  little  white  cottage  shutting  us  in,  and 
all  this  big,  turbulent,  troublesome  world  shut  out, 
listening  to  old  Tim  croak  and  Weesy  scold,  with  you 
to  chatter  to,  and  Inno  Desereaux  and  Pere  Louis,  my 
only  visitors.  Oh,  that  would  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  !" 

"  Where  I  am  the  great  and  noble 

Tell  me  of  renown  and  fame. 
And  the  red  wine  sparkles  highest 

To  do  honor  to  my  name. 
Far  away  a  place  is  vacant 

By  an  humble  hearth  for  me, 
Far  away  where  tears  are  falling 

There  I  fain  would  be." 

She  sings  the  words  under  her  breath,  then  sighs 
impatiently,  and  get  up,  pushing  back  all  the  soft  rings 
of  fair  hair,  and  walks  up  and  down,  a  lofty,  slender, 
gray-clad  figure,  in  the  narrow,  dingy  room. 

"If  one  could  forget  !  If  I  could  but  shut  out  the 
last  horrible  year,  with  all  its  hateful  remembrances,  its 
bitter  humiliations,  its  heart-burnings,  its  shame,  its 
insults.  But  I  will  carry  it  with  me  always,  a  plague- 
spot  in  my  life,  down  to  its  very  end.  And  though  I 
have  snapped  my  chain,  I  shall  carry  my  half  clanking 
with  me  to  rny  grave.  What  latent  possibilities  of  evil 
lie  undreamed  of  within  us.  I  am  afraid  of  myself  when 
I  think  what  a  few  months  more  of  that  life  might  have 
made  me.  I  don't  wonder  women  go  wrong  so  often 
through  sheer  desperation.  I  have  felt  the  capability 
within  myself.  Thank  God  !  all  these  evil  thoughts  of 
hatred  and  vengeance  have  been  left  behind.  I  am  con- 
scious of  nothing  now  but  an  unutterable  longing  to  be 
out  of  England.  Go  where  I  may,  endure  what  I  will,  I 
can  never  suffer  again  as  I  have  suffered  here." 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  421 

And  now  the  days  of  waiting  begin — weary  days, 
when  they  sit  in  the  dull  little  three-pair  front,  and 
never  stir  out  except  in  the  very  early  dawn,  when  only 
the  milkmen  and  market  people  are  abroad.  Under 
assumed  names  and  characters,  keeping  always  aloof 
from  the  matrons  and  maids  of  the  crowded  court,  yet 
finding  their  best  security  in  that  very  crowding,  the 
long  summer  days  drag  themselves  out  one  by  one.  No 
one  disturbs  them,  no  suspicion  follows  them,  that  they 
can  see.  Hope  buoys  them  up,  and  enables  them  to  bear 
the  depressing  confinement  without  much  harm  to 
health.  Only  at  intervals  profound  depression,  deadly 
apathy,  passionate  regret  for  her  wrecked  life,  lay  their 
hold  upon  Dolores,  and  for  the  time  she  sinks  and 
droops.  What  is  there  left  worth  living  for?  She  is  a 
slave  who  has  escaped,  but  a  slave  her  whole  life  long 
none  the  less,  and  liable  to  capture  any  day.  She  is 
Vane  Valentine's  wife — no  power  on  earth  can  alter 
that.  Life  or  death — what  do  they  matter?  All  that 
makes  life  best  worth  living — love — has  gone  forever. 
She  grows  hollow-eyed,  silent,  wan ;  she  fades  away 
before  Jemima's  affrighted  eyes  like  a  shadow.  These 
moods  do  not  last,  of  course  ;  the  natural  vigor  and 
elasticity  of  blessed  youth  reassert  themselves.  The 
days,  weeks  of  waiting  drag  themselves  out  ;  the  time 
approaches  for  their  second  flight,  and  the  excitement 
rouses  Dolores  to  new  life  and  hope. 

Early  one  morning  they  take  the  Havre  steamer, 
thinking  this  route  safest,  and  cross  to  France  in  safety. 
By  the  first  steamer  that  leaves  that  port  they  take  pas- 
sage to  New  York.  No  one  pursues  them  ;  nothing 
happens.  They  shut  themselves  up  in  their  cabin,  and 
watch  with  glad  eyes  the  receding  land,  the  leaping 
waves  of  the  wild  ocean,  that  is  to  sever  them  for  all 
time  from  Vane  Valentine.  "And  now,  my  o\vn  sweet 
Miss  Snowball,"  cries  Jemima  Ann,  clapping  her  hands 
gleefully,  "  we  are  free,  and  off  at  last,  and  all  the  world 


422  GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 

is  before  us  to  seek  our  fortunes,  like  the  princesses  in 
a  fairy  tale  !  And  good-by  to  Sir  Vane  Valentine  and 
his  Cornwall  prison,  and  his  two  sour  old  maids,  forever 
and  ever !" 

But  we  cannot  quite  say  good-by  to  Sir  Vane  Val- 
entine, after  Jemima  Ann's  summary  fashion.  On  the 
evening  of  the  day  of  my  lady's  flight,  Sir  Vane  comes 
up  from  Cornwall,  black  with  disappointment,  and 
fiercely  angry  with  his  wife  for  her  unexpected  defec- 
tion. That  she  would  dare  refuse  to  come  at  the  last 
mqment,  he  has  never  for  an  instant  thought,  and  in  her 
sudden  and  violent  headache  he  has  no  faith.  No  idea 
has  ever  entered  his  mind  that  she  has  chanced  to  over- 
hear his  interesting  little  plot  in  the  park.  He  has  been 
disposed  to  vent  his  wrath  on  Miss  Dorothy  and  Miss 
Routh  for  coming  without  her,  but  Miss  Routh  has  a  way 
of  putting  him  down  that  never  fails.  Drawing  her 
small  figure  up  to  its  tallest,  looking  him  full  in  the 
fiery  black  eyes  with  her  coolly  gleaming  green  ones  for 
a  full  minute  in  silence,  he  is  cowed  and  mesmerized  into 
sullen  silence  before  she  speaks  a  word. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  reserve  your  abuse  for  your 
wife — when  you  see  her,  Sir  Vane  Valentine,"  she  says, 
haughtily,  "we  do  not  deserve  it,  and  decline  to  take  it. 
We  have  obeyed  your  orders,  and  are  here.  There  is  a 
return  train  at  six,  I  am  told  ;  we  can  go  by  that,  if  you 
like." 

But  the  baronet  does  not  like.  He  mutters  a  sulky 
apology,  and  will  go  back  for  his  wife  himself  instead. 
He  takes  the  train  ;  "  nursing  his  wrath  to  keep  it  warm," 
and  reaches  the  Manor  Hou^e  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 
He  finds  the  servants  gathered  out  of  doors,  enjoying  the 
fresh  beauty  of  a  very  fine  moonrise.  They  disperse  pre- 
cipitately at  the  first  sight  of  his  scowling  face,  at  the 
first  harsh  sound  of  his  imperious  voice.  Where  is  my 
lady  ?  He  wishes  to  see  her  at  once.  Let  her  be  told  he 
is  here,  and  waiting  for  her  in  the  drawing-room.  They 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  423 

look  at  one  another  a  moment  in  startled  silence.  Then 
Watkins,  the  oldest  and  most  confidential  servant  there, 
advances. 

"If  you  please,  Sir  Vane,"  rather  tremulously,  "  my 
lady  is — is  not  here." 

"Not  here  !"  with  a  start  and  a  stare,  "where  then  is 
she  ?" 

"  Sir  Vane,  we  think  she  has  gone.  Almost  as  soon 
as  Miss  Valentine  and  Miss  Routh  left  this  morning,  she 
dressed  and  left  the  'ouse.  None  of  us  saw  her  go,  but 
we  missed  her  at  luncheon  time,  and  a  couple  of  hours 

ago " 

"  Well  ?"  he  says,  blankly  ;  "  well  ?" 

"  A  couple  of  hours  ago  I  was  down  at  the  station, 

if  you   please,  Sir  Vane,  and  I  heard  there "  another 

nervous  pause,  and  a  furious  stamp  from  Sir  Vane. 
"  Go  on,  you  staring  fool  !''  he  cries  out. 
"  I  heard  there,"  said  Mr.  Watkins,  turning  red  and 
defiant,  "that  my  lady  had  taken  a  ticket  for  London, 
and  left  by  the  arf  after  ten  express.  And  there  is  a  letter 
for  you,  Sir  Vane,  in  my  lady's  dressing-room." 
"  Bring  it  here,"  he  says,  "  and  go." 
He  stands  dazed — stunned — his  fierce  temper  quieted 
by  the  very  force  and  unexpectedness  of  this  crushing 
blow.     Run    away,   he   thinks,  blankly.     He  has  never 
thought  of  that.     Watkins  brings  him  the  letter — yes,  it 
is  in  her  hand.     He  tears  it  open  and  reads  : 

"I  hope  to  have  left  Valentine  forever,  hours  before 
you  receive  this.  Search  for  me  if  you  will — find  me  if 
you  can,  but  no  power  on  earth  shall  compel  me  to  re- 
turn to  the  life  I  now  leave — life  with  you.  Leave  me  in 
peace  to  work  my  own  way,  and  hidden  from  all  who 
have  ever  known  me,  I  will  trouble  you  no  more.  Let 
me  be  dead  to  you  who  hate  me,  as  I  shall  be  to  the  fe\y 
friends  who  still  care  for  me — I  ask  for  no  more  than 
that.  Hunt  me  down,  and  it  shall  be  at  your  peril.  I 


424  GRIEF    AND    PAIN. 

will  throw  myself  on  the  protection  of  George  Valen- 
tine, and  proclaim  to  the  world  with  him  that  you  hold 
illegally  his  title  and  estate.  DOLORES." 

He  stands  with  the  letter  ir.  his  hand — silent,  over- 
whelmed by  this  blow,  this  total  overthrow  of  all  his 
plans — filled  with  fury  and  disappointment.  Fled — es- 
caped !  She  has  suspected  then,  has  perhaps  overheard. 
He  reads  the  letter  again  and  again.  If  he  leaves  her  in 
peace  her  lips  are  sealed  ;  if  he  seeks  her  out  she  will 
claim  the  friendship  of  the  man  he  hates — ay,  and  fears. 
He  does  not  for  a  moment  doubt  what  she  says  here,  he 
knows  that  she  is  true  as  truth  itself.  But  what  of  her 
lover  in  the  village — is  he  in  ignorance  of  her  flight  too? 
He  puts  on  his  hat  and  goes  straight  to  the  Ratherripe 
Arms.  There,  standing  on  the  threshold,  enjoying  the 
starry  beauty  of  the  night,  Rene  Macdonald  stands — as 
he  is  convinced  he  would  not  stand  if  he  knew  of  to- 
day's work.  He  passes  by  without  entering,  and  walks 
moodily  back  to  the  Manor.  Here  further  confirmation 
meets  him  in  the  shape  of  a  note,  brought  by  a  boy  from 
the  village,  in  his  absence.  It  is  addressed  to  Lady  Val- 
entine. He  opens  it  at  once  ;  it  begins  abruptly  : 

"DOLORES — I  have  had  a  letter  to-day  from  George 
Valentine,  summoning  me  to  London,  where  he  awaits 
me.  Can  I  not  see  you  for  one  moment  before  I  go,  if 
only  to  say  good-by  ?  RENE." 

"  The  boy  is  waiting,  if  you  please,  Sir  Vane,"  the 
servant  says  who  delivers  it ;  "  there  is  an  answer,  he 
,  says." 

"Tell  him  Lady  Valentine  left  for  Cornwall  this 
morning,  and  that  you  do  not  know  when  she  will  be 
back,"  responds  Sir  Vane. 

The  answer  is  delivered,  and  the  boy  goes. 

That  night   Sir  Vane  spends  perforce  at  the  Manor  ; 


GRIEF    AND    PAIN.  425 

next  morning  he  takes  the  earliest  train  for  London,  and 
his  first  action  is  to  drive  straight  to  Scotland  Yard 
and  set  a  clever  detective  on  the  track  of  his  runaway 
wife. 

'•  I'll  find  you,  my  lady,  if  skill  and  money  can  do  it." 
he  says,  with  a  vicious  snap  of  his  white  teeth,  "and  I'll 
take  the  consequences,  and,  by ,  so  shall  you  !" 

That  same  early  train  bears  away  another  passenger, 
the  dark,  foreign-looking  young  artist  who  has  been 
stopping  for  the  past  week  at  the  village  inn.  The  two 
men  meet,  and  eye  each  other  in  no  very  friendly  fashion 
at  the  station.  No  greetings  are  exchanged  ;  they  are 
enemies  to  the  death,  and  they  read  it  in  each  other's 
glance.  Rene  Macdonald  turns  away,  a  chill  sensation 
of  repulsion  filling  him,  and  thinks,  with  a  shudder  of 
pity  and  love,  what  Dolores'  life  must  be  like  beside  this 
man.  Her  pale,  pathetic  young  face,  so  worn,  so 
altered,  rises  before  him  as  he  saw  it  that  evening  in  the 
park. 

"  And  I  am  powerless  to  help  her,"  he  despairingly 
thinks.  "  I  would  give  my  life  to  save  her  from  oue  sor- 
row, and  I  must  stand  aside  and  yield  her  up  to  be  tor- 
tured to  death  by  this  sullen  scoundrel.  Oh,  my  darling  ! 
my  little  love  !  if  only  the  past  could  be  undone  what 
power  on  earth  should  be  strong  enough  to  force  me  to 
yield  you  up  to  Vane  Valentine  ?" 

And  so,  with  the  falling  night  of  Dolores' first  day  in 
London,  the  train  that  comes  thundering  in  through  the 
dismal  twilight  disgorges  among  its  crowd  of  passengers 
the  man  who  hates  and  the  man  who  loves  her.  At  the 
moment  her  thoughts  are  with  both — with  fear  for  one, 
with  longing  for  the  other— as  she  drearily  sits  at  the 
window  of  Jemima's  dingy  little  lodging,  watching,  with 
blue,  melanchol}'  eyes,  the  ceaselessly-falling  rain. 


426  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 


CHAPTER     XXXVIII. 

FOR   SAD   TIMES,   AND  GLAD   TIMES,   AND   ALL  TIMES 
PASS   OVER." 


T  is  the  afternoon  of  a  wild  and  tempestuous 
winter  day — a  day  for  glowing  coal  fires,  and 
drawn  curtains,  and  easy  chairs,  and  cozy 
ingle  nooks.  Long  lines  of  sleet  lash  the 
windows  sharply  as  steel,  the  wind  whistles  shrilly  down 
the  streets,  half  beating  the  breath  out  of  the  unwary, 
and  goes  whooping  through  the  streets  of  New  York 
like  a  March  wind  gone  mad.  Shutters  bang,  loose 
casements  rattle,  ancient  tenements  totter  before  the  face 
of  the  blast.  Few  are  abroad — the  pavements  are  brittle 
and  slippery  as  glass,  street  lamps  twinkle  gustily 
athwart  the  sleet  and  wind.  Stores  are  closing  early — 
only  the  lager-bier  saloon  at  the  corner,  with  it's  dazzling 
display  of  gas,  looks  brisk  and  cheerful,  and  seems  to 
drive  a  thriving  trade. 

"And  I  hope  to  goodness  gracious  she'll  take  a  stage 
down  town,  and  not  get  her  death  trying  to  save  ten 
cents,"  murmurs  a  watcher,  flattening  her  nose  anxiously 
against  a  window-pane  ;  "  it's  an  awful  afternoon." 

It  is.  The  wind  sweeps  by  with  a  whoop  and  a  howl 
as  she  says  it,  a  fresh  dash  of  sleety  rain  beats  noisily 
against  the  panes.  The  watcher  leaves  the  window,  and 
gives  an  admonitory  poke  to  an  already  brilliant  coal 
fire,  another  touch  here  and  there  to  a  trimly-set  table, 
places  the  small  cane  rocker  more  geometrically  straight 
in  the  center  of  the  hearth-rug,  and  turns  the  lamp  up 
yet  a  trifle  higher,  for  it  is  nearly  dark  at  five  o'clock. 
It  is  a  comfortable  little  room,  with  a  warm-looking  red 
carpet,  some  cane  chairs,  white  curtains,  a  piano  in  a 
corner,  a  litter  of  books  and  maga/ines,  and  a  pile  of 


ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER.  427 

needlework  in  a  basket.  It  is  an  apartment  big  enough 
for  two,  for  three,  perhaps  fitting  tightly— no  more.  But 
as  only  two  persons  are  ever  in  it,  this  is  hardly  an 
objection.  "And  less  coal  does  to  warm  it,"  says, 
sagely,  Jemima  Ann.  It  is  Jemima  Ann  who  moves 
about  now,  in  a  flutter  of  nervous  unrest,  waiting  for 
her  young  lady,  who  has  not  yet  returned  from  her  day's 
work.  And  no  queen  recently  come  into  her  kingdom 
was  ever  prouder  of  that  dominion  than  is  Jemima  Ann 
of  this  furnished  "  floor  through  "  in  the  third  story  of  a 
third-rate  New  York  house,  in  a  very  third-ra'.c  street. 
For  it  is  their  own,  their  very  own,  and  they  are 
together,  and  happy,  and  free,  and  she  helps  to  keep  it — 
is  not  only  sole  housekeeper  and  manager,  but  also  part 
bread-winner.  That  pile  of  white  plain  sewing  there 
in  the  basket  is  hers,  thrown  down  while  she  gets 
tea.  And  hard  and  trying  times  have  come  and  gone 
ere  they  found  themselves  safely  moored  in  this  small 
haven  of  rest. 

They  have  been  adrift  for  weary  months  in  New  York 
city  before  fortune  steered  them  here,  and  into  safe  and 
pleasant  work.  True,  they  have  never  known  want,  nor 
anything  approaching  to  it,  but  suspicious  eyes  have 
looked  at  them,  insolent  voices  have  spoken  to  them  ; 
they  have  been  unprotected,  and  lonely,  and  full  of  fear. 
But  all  that  is  past,  arid  hardly  to  be  regretted  now,  as 
they  look  back.  It  wasone  phase  of  life,  imagined  before, 
but  never  seen  ;  it  is  over,  and  not  likely  to  return. 

Eight  months  have  gone  since  they  left  Havre — 
nearly  ten  since  Lady  Valentine  fled  from  her  husband — 
and  in  all  that  time  she  has  heard  little  of  the  life  and  the 
people  left  behind. 

"  What  be  you  a-goin'  to  call  yourself  when  we  get  to 
New  York  ?"  said  to  her,  one  day  on  shipboard,  Jemima 
Ann. 

"  Call  myself  ?"  Dolores  says,  vaguely,  looking  up 
from  the  book  she  is  reading. 


428  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 

"What  name  will  you  go  by?  Not  Lady  Valentine, 
I  hope,"  says  Jemima,  laughing.  "  No  one  will  believe 
that" 

"  Lady  Valentine  !  No,"  Dolores  says,  with  a  shud- 
der ;  "  I  hate  that  name.  No.  Let  me  see.  I  might  take 
yours,  only  Hopkins  is  not  pretty.  Let  me  think."  She 
looks  at  Jemima  half  smiling.  "  Suppose  I  go  back  to  the 
old  name  I  had  as  a  child — Trillon  ?  It  will  do  as  well 
as  any.  How  many  I  seem  to  have  borne  in  my  time. 
Yes  ;  the  name  by  which  you  knew  me  first,  my  Jemima, 
you  shall  call  me  by  again.  I  am,  from  the  hour  we  land, 
Mrs.  Trillon." 

The  sea  voyage  does  her  a  world  of  good*  Depression, 
melancholia,  drop  from  her  as  a  garment ;  she  brightens 
in  spirits,  gains  in  health  and  strength,  looks  like  her 
own  blooming  self  once  more.  The  relief  is  so  unutter- 
able of  this  almost  accomplished  escape.  For  now  that 
the  Atlantic  flows  between  them,  she  fears  Vane  Valen- 
tine no  longer.  To  discover  her  in  New  York  will  be  a 
difficult  task,  even  for  him  ;  to  force  her  to  return  to  him, 
an  impossibility.  And  she  is  scarcely  more  than  twenty 
years  old — and  life  so  easily  puts  on  its  most  radiant  face 
when  one  is  free,  and  twenty  years  old  !  They  land,  and 
try  boarding  at  first — Mrs.  Trillon,  and  her  friend,  Miss 
Hopkins — there  is  to  be  no  more  the  distinction  of  mis- 
tress and  maid.  They  find  a  boarding-house,  and,  after 
a  few  days'  delay,  begin  to  look  about  them  for  work. 
Both  are  failures.  Life  in  a  noisy,  gossiping  second-rate 
boarding-house  is  not  to  be  endured  ;  a  month  of  it  is  as 
much  as  Dolores  can  bear.  Neither  is  work  to  be  had 
for  the  asking  ;  they  are  not  adapted,  these  two,  to  many 
kinds  of  work. 

"Let  us  try  housekeeping,  Jemima  Ann,"  suggests 
Mrs.  Trillon,  looking  up  one  day  from  the  big  daily,  whose 
page  of  advertisements  she  is  poring  over  with  knitted 
brows.  "  Here  are  no  end  of  furnished  apartments  for 
'light  housekeeping.'  Let  us  try  light  housekeeping 


ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER.  429 

Jemima  Ann.  I  fancy  it  will  cost  us  no  more  than  we 
are  paying  here,  and  it  will  certainly  be  more  private  and 
more  tlean." 

Jemima  Ann  hails  the  happy  thought ;  she  puts  on 
her  bonnet  and  sallies  forth  in  the  quest.  But  New  York 
is  a  large  city,  advertisements  are  deceptive,  and  land- 
ladies sour. 

Another  week  goes  by,  much  shoe-leather  is  worn, 
many  doer-bells  are  rung,  and  many,  many  weary  stairs 
mounted  before  anything  is  found  suitable  to  limited 
means  and  rather  fastidious  tastes.  Then  references  are 
demanded,  and  references  they  have  none.  At  last  the 
tiniest  of  all  tiny  French  flats  is  discovered — a  minute 
parlor,  two  dimly-lit  closets,  called  bedrooms,  a  micro- 
scopic kitchen,  and  dining-room — .ill  neat  and  clean,  and 
at  a  high  price,  but  within  their  united  means.  Best  of 
all,  the  janitress — a  pleasant-faced  matron — consents  to 
take  her  month's  rent  in  advance  and  waive  references. 
She  likes  the  looks  of  her,  she  smilingly  tells  Jemima 
Ann.  Here  they  come  early  in  September,  and  here  they 
have  been  ever  since.  They  find  it  agreeable  enough  at 
first  ;  it  is  like  playing  at  housekeeping  in  a  doll's  house 
Jemima  Ann  cooks  the  most  delicious  little  dishes,  and 
proves  herself  a  very  jewel  of  a  housekeeper.  Lady  Val- 
entine is  charmed  with  everything — the  dots  of  rooms, 
the  wonderful  little  kitchen  range,  that  seems  hardly  too 
large  to  be  put  in  her  pocket— the  absolutely  new  life 
that  begins  for  her.  Even  the  street  is  not  without  a 
charm  of  its  own — a  dusty,  stuffy  street  enough,  with  a 
commingled  odor  of  adjacent  breweries  and  stables  hang- 
ing about  it,  a  sidewalk  noisy  with  children  all  the  day 
long,  a  favorite  haunt  of  organ-grinders,  with  weary  ma- 
trons holding  babies,  and  sitting  on  door-steps  in  the 
cool  and  silent  eventide.  Tnc charm  is  surely  in  nothing 
but  its  entire  novelty,  but  Dolores  likes  to  sit  behind  the 
Nottingham  lace  curtains  of  the  little  parlor,  and  take  it 
all  in.  Life  in  this  phase  she  has  never  seen  beS>iv.  and 


430  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 

she  is  among  them,  if  not  of  them,  for  all  time  now.  But 
still  work  comes  not,  and  work  they  soon  must  find. 
Their  united  hoard,  increased  by  the  sale  of  Dolores* 
jewels,  is  melting  away — let  Jemima  Ann  cater  never  so 
cautiously.  Their  rooms  are  secured  for  this  month  at 
least,  before  it  ends  work  must  be  found.  Winter  is  ap- 
proaching, and  "  winter  is  no  man's  friend." 

"We  must  keep  together,  come  what  may,"  says 
Dolores,  decidedly,  "  that  at  least  is  as  fixed  as  fate.  Work 
or  no  work,  part  we  shall  not,  my  Jemima." 

"No,  my  pretty,  I  hope  and  pray  not." 

"  Let  me  see,"  says  "  Mrs.  Trillon,"  tapping  her  pretty 
chin  with  her  pencil,  that  reflective  frown,  so  often  there 
now,  knitting  her  hrows,  "  my  work  must  be  teaching  if 
I  can  get  it.  I  can  teach  music,  vocal  and  instrumental 
— that  is  my  one  strong  point.  French,  of  course,  Ger- 
man after  a  fashion,  and  I  could  give  lessons  in  crayon 
and  pencil  drawing,  and  water  colors.  Embroidery,  too, 
ef  every  kind,  we  were  thoroughly  drilled  in  at  Villa  des 
Anges."  Here  her  gravity  suddenly  gives  way  over  the 
list  of  her  accomplishments,  and  her  joyous  young  laugh 
rings  out.  "It  sounds  ridiculous,  doesn't  it,  cataloguing 
my  wonderful  talents  after  this  fashion.  I  ought  to 
make  out  a  list  of  terms  for  to-morrow's  Herald,  and 
inform  the  public  that  the  highest  bidder  can  have  me 
cheap.  Heigho  !  one  laughs,  but  it  is  no  joke  after  all. 
I  will  advertise,  Jemima  Ann,  and  try  my  fortune  twice." 

She  does ;  after  a  score  or  more  attempts  an  adver- 
tisement is  drawn  up.  It  is  a  repugnant  task,  this  cold- 
blooded chronicling  of  what  she  can  do  ;  it  sounds  boast- 
ful and  blatant,  read  over.  One  is  written  at  last,  that 
Jemima  Ann  pronounces  perfection,  and  which  Mrs. 
Trillon  finds  the  best  she  can  do — and  it  is  sealed  up  in 
an  envelope,  and  dropped",  before  Jemima  seeks  her  vestal 
couch  in  the  nearest  letter-box. 

There  follows  an  interval  which  Jemima  Ann  em- 
ploys in  looking  out  for  work  for  herself.  Dolores  tries 


ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER.  431 

to  dissuade  her.  "  If  I  get  a  situation  as  governess,"  she 
says,  "  it  will  suffice  for  us  both.  Your  work  will  be  to 
keep  this  little  house  bright  and  cozy." 

But  Jemima  is  as  resolute  when  she  likes  as  heryoung 
mistress.  "No,  Miss  Snowball,"  she  says  earnestly,  "that 
would  never  satisfy  me.  I  must  do  something  for  my 
keep— sewing  if  I  can  get  it — as  well  as  you.  I  will  have 
plenty  of  time  for  the  housekeeping.  There  ain't  no  kind 
of  plain  sewing  I  ain't  up  to,  I  guess,  and  Mis'  Scudder, 
our  landlady,  has  took  a  kind  o'  fancy  to  me  from  the  first, 
and  she  reckons  she  can  get  me  something  to  do.  pretty 
soon." 

Mrs.  Scudder  proves  to  be  as  good  as  her  word.  She 
gets  Jemima  Ann  "slop  "  shirt  making,  and  plenty  of  it ; 
coarse  work,  and  wearily  unremunerative  prices,  but 
still  a  help  ;  and  from  thenceforth  Jemima  is  as  busy  as 
a  bee  and  as  happy  as  a  queen. 

But  Dolores'  ambitious  advertisement  seems  as  bread 
cast  upon  the  waters.  Many  days  elapse  and  it  does  not 
return.  Answers  there  are,  and  terms  are  stated,  and 
applications  are  personally  made  ;  but,  somehow,  nothing 
comes  of  these  negotiations ;  the  reference  question 
stands  in  the  way  again.  Pretty  young  widows,  highly 
accomplished,  without  references,  are  not  desirable  pre- 
ceptresses for  innocent  youth,  and  a  fair,  sweet  face,  and 
gentle,  graceful  manners,  fail  to  compensate. 

At  last,  in  November,  when  blank  despair  is  coming 
upon  her,  one  impulsive  lady  falls  in  love  at  sight  with 
her  pathetic  pale  face  and  great  wistful  blue  eyes  and 
low,  sweet-toned  voice,  and  braves  fate  and  references, 
and  engages  her  as  French  and  music  teacher  to  her  two 
boys  on  the  spot.  Even  without  a  reference  she  can  do 
no  particular  harm  to  Willy  and  Freddie,  aged  ten  and 
twelve.  She  is  closely  watched  for  a  little,  and  is  found 
to  be  a  painstaking  teacher,  even  more  gentle  and  win- 
ning than  she  looks. 

"  Nothing  succeeds  like  success."     Her  first  employer 


432  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 

speaks  of  her  pretty  paragon  to  her  friends,  and  speedily 
three  other  engagements  follow.  And  now,  all  day 
long,  behold  Dolores,  draped  in  waterproof  and  vail,  a 
roll  of  music  in  her  hand,  fully  established  as  a  "  trotting 
governess,"  and  adding  dollars  and  dollars  monthly  to 
their  humble  menage. 

About  Christmas  .^he  is  engaged  as  finishing  governess 
to  Miss  Blanche  Pettingill,  sole  daughter  of  the  house 
and  heart  of  Peter  Pettingill,  Esquire,  of  Lexington 
avenue,  millionaire  and  woolen  manufacturer,  the  wife 
of  whose  bosom  literally  hangs  herself  with  diamonds, 
and  blazes  with  them  at  her  big  parties  up  in  the  brown- 
stone  palace  in  this  one  of  New  York's  stateliest  avenues. 
There  is  a  villa  at  Newport,  a  homestead  up  the  Hudson, 
a  winter  place  in  Florida,  and  the  enchanted  princess 
who  is  to  have  all  this  one  day  is  nineteen  years  old,  and 
rather  an  ignoramus  than  otherwise,  and  has  suddenly 
wakened  up  to  that  fact,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  atone 
for  lost  time  by  studying  under  the  pretty,  and  gentle, 
and  obscure  Madame  Trillon. 

"  Pa  says  he  would  give  ten  thousand  dollars  to  have 
me  able  to  play,  and  sing,  and  talk  French  as  you  do, 
Mrs.  Trillon,"  says  the  princess,  with  a  despairing  sigh  ; 
"  I  wish  to  goodness  he'd  have  thought  of  it  half  a  dozen 
years  ago.  He  has  been  so  busy  making  money  ever 
since  I  can  remember,  and  ma's  been  so  busy  spending 
it,  that  thev  neither  of  them  had  time  to  attend  to  my 
education,  and  here  I  am  an  heiress  and  everything,  and 
hardly  an  accomplishment  about  me.  And  when  a  per- 
son is  nineteen,  and  in  society,  studying  languages,  and 
doing  pianoforte  drudgery,  is  no  end  of  a  bore." 

Mrs.  Trillon  sympathizes,  does  her  best,  and  spends 
three  hours  daily  in  the  Lexington  avenue  mansion, 
secluded  in  Miss  Blanche's  boudoir.  For  it  is  to  be  a 
profound  secret  from  all  the  world  that  this  polishing  is 
being  given  to  Miss  Blanche. 

"That  is  what  I  like  Mrs.  Trillon  for,"  remarks  Miss 


ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER.  433 

Pettingill  to  Mrs.  Pettingill,  "she  knows  how  to  hold 
her  tongue.  And  yet  she  is  sympathetic,  you  can  see  she 
appreciates  the  situation,  and  is  trying  to  do  her  very  best 
for  me.  And  she  has  the  most  elegant  and  aristocratic 
manners.  I  only  wish  I  could  ever  be  like  her." 

"  Mrs.  Trillon  is  a  person,  I  guess,  who  has  seen  bet- 
ter days,"  responds  mamma. 

"  I  should  rather  think  so,"  Miss  Blanche  cries,  ener- 
getically. "She  plays  and  sings  perfectly  splendid,  and 
talks  French  like  a  native.  She  never  speaks  of  herself, 
but  I  know  she  must  have  a  story,  and  a  romantic  one,  if 
a  person  could  only  get  at  it.  But  I  never  can  ask  ques- 
tions of  Mrs.  Trillon." 

It  is  at  the  Pettingill  mansion  that  Dolores  is  this  wild 
and  blustery  .March  afternoon,  while  Jemima  Ann  stirs 
the  fire  and  looks  expectantly  out  of  the  window,  and 
waits  for  her  coming  home.  It  is  late  when  she  -comes, 
neither  wet  nor  weary  from  the  howling  storm,  but  all 
laughing,  and  with  cheeks  and  eyes  bright  with  the  frosty 
wind. 

"  Oh,  my  own  dear,"  cries  Jemima,  "  you  are  half  dead, 
I  know.  I  do  hope  you  rode  down  town  in  the  stage." 

"No,  I  didn't,"  returns  Dolores,  laughing.  "I  rode, 
but  not  in  the  stage.  They  sent  me  in  the  carriage ; 
Miss  Pettingill  would  have  it  so.  They  are  really  the 
best-natured  people  in  the  world.  They  wished  me  to 
stay  all  night,  and  as  I  would  not,  insisted  on  the  carriage. 
Is  supper  ready  ?  for  I  am  hungry,  although  I  had  tea 
and  cakes  at  five  o'clock.  It  must  be  nearly  nine  now." 

"Jest  twenty  minutes  to,"  says  Jemima,  bustling 
about.  "  Take  off  your  things,  my  deary,  and  sit  here 
in  the  rocker  and  warm  your  feet.  Supper's  all  ready, 
and  it  will  be  on  the  table  in  ten  minutes." 

"How  cozy  it  is  here,"  Dolores  says,  with  a  delicious 
sense  of  rest  well  earned,  and  of  the  long  evening  to 
come,  with  two  or  three  new  magazines  to  speed  its  flight. 
"  What  a  dear  little  home  we  have,  and  what  a  queen  of 


434  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 

housekeepers  is  my  Jerriroa  Ann.  It  is  very  splendid  up 
there  in  the  Pettingill  palace,  but  I  really  do  not  think  I 
would  care  to  exchange.  I  like  our  duodecimo  edition 
of  housekeeping  best." 

Supper  is  served — two  or  three  delicate  little  dishes, 
and  tea  brewed  to  the  point  of  perfection.  Outside,  the 
whistling  and  lashing  of  the  March  night  accents  the 
sense  of  comfort  and  warmth. 

"  There  is  to  be  a  prodigious  party  up  at  the  Pettin- 
gill's  next  week,"  says  Dolores,  as  they  sit  and  discuss 
their  repast.  "  Quite  a  mammoth  gathering  of  the  plutoc- 
racy of  New  York,  and  I  am  to  go  and  play  the  accom- 
paniments of  Blanche's  songs.  She  has  not  much  courage 
about  performing  in  public,  although  she  really  has  a 
very  nice  voice,  and  absolutely  insists  that  I  shall  play 
the  accompaniments.  I  do  not  like  it,  but  I  cannot  re- 
fuse, they  are  so  extremely  nice  to  me,  and  Blanche  is 
such  a  dear,  simple-minded,  good-natured  little  soul. 
The  piano  is  to  be  placed  in  a  sort  of  bower  of  tall  flower- 
ing plants,  and  I  shall  be  pretty  well  screened  from  the 
company.  I  must  get  a  dress  for  the  auspicious  occasion 
— white  trimmed  with  black,  I  suppose,  and  jet  orna- 
ments, to  keep  up  my  character  of  a  widow  in  half 
mourning.  I  find  the  whole  thing  rather  a  bore,  but  I 
cannot  disappoint  Miss  Pettingill." 

So,  in  the  lamp-lit,  fire-lit  little  parlor  they  sit 
together  and  chat  over  the  doings  of  the  day.  These 
evening  home-comings  are  delightful  to  both — Dolores 
snugly  ensconced  in  the  rocker,  Jemima  with  her  sewing 
at  the  table.  There  is  talk,  and  music — and  the  shrill 
beating  of  rain  and  sleet  without,  and  perfect  peace, 
monotonous  perhaps,  but  very  grateful,  within. 

"  If  it  will  only  last,"  Dolores  says,  looking  dreamily 
into  the  fire;  "at  times  it  seems  almost  too  good. 
Peace  is  the  best  thing  in  all  the  world,  Jemima  Ann — 
betrer  than  love,  with  its  fever,  better  than  wealth,  with 
its  cares.  If  it  will  only  last  !" 

*  *  *  *  *  * 


ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER.  435 

It  is  the  night  of  the  great  ball  up  on  Lexington 
*venue.  The  big  brown  corner  house  is  all  a-glitter 
with  gas.  a  lengthy  row  of  carriages  wind  down  the 
stately  street,  a  little  crowd  has  gathered  to  see  the 
guests  go  in,  music  resounds.  Mrs.  Pettingill,  all  alight 
with  those  famous  diamonds,  like  an  Indian  idol,  re- 
ceives her  friends.  Miss  Blanche,  in  a  wonderful  dress 
from  Paris,  stands  near,  looking  flushed  and  nervous, 
and  wishing,  more  than  ever  before,  pa's  wealth  could 
buy  for  her  Mrs.  Trillon's  beautiful,  gracious,  graceful 
manners.  Mrs.  Trillon  is  up-stairs  in  the  boudoir, 
where,  by  her  own  desire,  she  is  to  be  left  until  sum- 
moned for  those  songs.  Miss  Pettingill  has  had  but  one 
flurried  moment  with  her. 

"  It  will  be  even  worse  than  I  thought,"  she  exclaims, 
in  a  panic  of  nervous  apprehension,  "  there  is  an 
Englishman  coming,  somebody  very  great,  a  nobleman, 
I  believe,  and  I  wish  he  was  safely  back  in  his  own 
country.  He  is  coming  with  the  Colbarts — he  is  their 
guest  while  in  New  York.  It  was  bad  enough  before, 
goodness  knows  ;  it  will  be  dreadful — dreadful  to  have 
to  sing  before  him." 

Dolores  laughs. 

"  I  really  do  not  see  why.  Let  us  hope  the  nobleman 
is  no  musical  critic.  What  is  his  name  ?" 

"There  is  ma  calling,"  cries  excitable  Miss  Pettingill. 
"  I  wish — I  wish  ma  wouldn't  insist  upon  my  singing, 
but  she  does,  and  I  know — I  feel  I  shall  break  down  and 
disgrace  myself  forever." 

She  flies  away,  and  Dolores  settles  for  a  quiet  hour  or 
two  over  a  new  book.  The  swelling  music  floats  up  to 
her,  sounds  of  laughter  and  gay  voices  reach  her  now 
and  then,  but  the  story  she  reads  absorbs  her  presently, 
and  when  at  last  the  message  comes  that  it  is  time  to  go 
down,  she  starts  up,  surprised  to  find  it  so  late. 

"And  you  need  not  go  through  the  crowded  room," 
says  Miss  Pettingill's  maid,  who  comes  for  her,  "al- 


436  ALL     TIMES    PASS    OVER. 

though,"  with  an  honest  admiring  glance  at  the  crisp  new 
dress  and  ornaments,  the  golden  curled  hair  and  flowei 
face,  "  there  is  not  a  lady  down  there  that  looks  prettier 
than  you,  Mrs.  Trillon.  I  can  take  you  right  to  the 
piano  without  passing  among  the  people  at  all." 
"Yes,"  Mrs.  Trillon  says,  "that  will  be  best." 
They  go,  and  manage  to  make  their  way  almost  un- 
noticed to  where  the  big  Steinway  stands.  Tall  shrubs, 
and  a  very  bower  of  ferns  and  lofty  plants,  almost  com- 
pletely screen  the  instrument  and  the  performer.  Blanche 
comes  up  in  a  flutter  of  apprehension  and  nervousness. 

From  where  she  sits  Dolores  can  see  far  down  the 
dazzling  vista  of  light,  and  flowers,  and  thronged  rooms, 
herself  invisible. 

"  Courage  !"  she  whispers,  brightly  ;  "  imagine  we 
are  alone,  and  it  is  our  daily  music  lesson." 

She  strikes  the  first  chords  of  the  symphony,  and  Miss 
Blanche  bursts  into  song. 

A  little  group  follows  the  heiress  and  listens  10  her 
song.  Dolores  glances  through  her  verdant  bower  as  she 
plays,  thinking  of  other  nights  and  scenes  like  this  in 
far-off  lands,  when  she  was  queen  of  the  revels.  Of  that 
other  ball  that  seems  so  far  off  now,  at  Lady  Rather- 
ripe's,  where  Colonel  Deering  was  her  devoted  slave,  and 
she  came  upon  that  never-to-be-forgotten  scene  between 
her  husband  and  Camilla  Routh.  A  chill,  creeping 
feeling  makes  her  shiver  in  the  perfumed  warmth  as  she 
recalls  it  ;  some  of  the  shame,  the  pain,  the  anger,  the 
i  hunted  feeling  of  that  night  returns  to  her. 

And  yet  it  is  as  a  dream  now — a  bad  dream,  that  is 
over  and  gone.  That  life  is  at  an  end  forever.  There  is 
no  longer  a  Dolores,  Lady  Valentine — only  a  Mrs. 
Trillon,  who  teaches  for  a  salary,  and  walks  the  New 
York  streets  in  shabby  dresses,  and  lives  in  a  poky  five- 
rooried  flat,  and  plays  Miss  Blanche  Pettingill's  accom- 
paniments for  so  much  per  night.  That  life  has  come 
and  gone  like  a  dream,  and  she  is  quite  content — or  tries 


ALL    THINGS    EVEN.  437 

hard  to  think  she  is — to  let  life  go  on  indifferently  like 
this. 

The  song  ends,  and  with  no  disastrous  breakdown. 
There  is  a  soft  murmur  of  thanks  and  pleasure,  and 
Blanche  breathes  again.  But  the  respite  is  only  for  a 
moment. 

"Here  is " 

Dolores  does  not  catch  the  name,  lost  in  the  last 
vibrating  chords  she  strikes,  but  a  flutter  goes  all  at 
once  through  the  little  circle  behind  her. 

"Oh  !"  cries  Blanche,  with  a  gasp  of  very  real  horror, 
"it  is  the  Englishman  and  ma!  Now  I  know  she  will 
make  me  sing  again  !" 

Dolores  half  laughs  at  the  anguish  of  the  tone,  the 
tragic  terror  of  the  look,  and  peeps  with  considerable 
curiosity  through  her  leafy  screen.  She  sees  coming 
down  the  long,  brilliant  room  Mrs.  Pettingill,  in  her 
diamonds  and  moire  antique,  on  the  arm  of  a  tall,  dark 
gentleman,  who  does  not  look  in  the  least  like  an 
Englishman.  And  as  she  looks  the  room  spins  round, 
the  gas-lights  flash  out  and  blind  her,  a  mist  comes 
before  her  eyes,  her  heart  absolutely  stops  beatiag. 

For  the  man  on  whose  arm  Mrs.  Pettingill  l*ians,  the 
English  "  nobleman  "  coming  straight  to  where  sll«  *its, 
is — Sir  Vane  Valentine  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
"  FOR  TIME  AT  LAST  MAKES  ALL  THINGS  EVEN." 

HE  sits  for  one  dizzy  moment,  stunned,  bewil- 
dered, motionless.     Her  husband  ! — and  here  . 
— drawing  nearer,  his  head  a  little  bent,  Us 
tening   to    what   his  hostess  is  saying,  with 
something  of  a  bored  look  in  his  sallow,  dissatisfied  face. 


438  ALL    THINGS    EVEN. 

She  holds  her  breath,  and  sits  gazing,  held  by  some- 
thing of  that  subtle,  horrible  fascination  with  which  a 
serpent  holds  its  quivering  victim.  They  are  already 
within  five  yards  of  her  ;  a  second  or  two  and  they  will 
be  face  to  face  ! 

And  then — what  will  he  do  then  ?  He  hates  a  scene — 
will  he  make  one  before  all  these  people  ?  As  she  thinks, 
her  brain  whirling,  some  one  meets  them,  and  Mrs.  Pet- 
tingill  pauses  for  a  moment  to  introduce  the  some  one 
to  the  lion  of  the  night. 

-  And  then,  like  a  flash,  Dolores  awakes  from  her 
stunned  torpor.  He  has  not  seen  her  ;  it  is  not  yet  too 
late  ;  no  one  is  looking  at  her  ;  Blanche  is  watching,  in 
a  flutter  of  apprehension,  the  approach  of  ma  and  her 
nobleman. 

She  starts  to  her  feet,  slips  between  the  tall  plants,  flies 
out  of  the  room,  down  a  long  hall,  up  the  stairs,  and  into 
the  room  she  so  lately  left.  Her  hat  and  mantle  lie 
where  she  threw  them  upon  entering;  she  snatches  them 
up,  breathlessly,  and  puts  them  on.  No  time  to  stop,  no 
time  to  think,  no  time  to  falter  or  hesitate.  Flight  ! — 
that  is  her  one  idea  ;  to  get  away  from  this  house — from 
him — without  a  second's  loss  of  time.  A  sickening  fear 
of  him  fills  her — a  blind,  unreasoning  fear,  that  bids  her 
fly  and  heed  no  consequences.  A  clock  on  the  mantel 
strikes  two.  It  is  an  unearthly  hour  to  be  out  alone  in 
the  streets  of  New  York  ;  but  she  never  heeds  that — 
nothing  that  can  befall  her  can  be  as  terrible  as  meeting 
Vane  Valentine. 

With  the  thought  in  her  mind,  she  is  down  the  stairs, 
and  out  of  the  house,  and  hurrying  rapidly  down  the 
silent  street.  It  is  moonlight,  bright  and  cold.  There  is 
no  wind,  and  the  cold,  keen  air  she  does  not  feel.  If  it 
were  blowing  a  hurricane  she  would  not  feel  it  now. 
She  is  filled  with  but  one  idea — to  get  home,  to  hide  her- 
self, to  fly  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth,  if  need  be, 
from  this  man.  Of  course  he  is  here  in  search  of  her 


ALL    THINGS    EVEN.  439 

Will  her  sudden  disappearance  to-night  create  comment, 
and  come  to  his  ears  ? — quick  and  suspicious  ears  always. 
Will  he  ask  questions,  and  get  a  description  of  her,  and 
recognize  her  at  once  ?  Will  he  set  the  city  detectives 
on  her  track,  and  hunt  her  down  ?  It  will  not  be  difficult 
— an  assumed  name  is  but  a  thin  disguise.  And  when  he 
has  found  her,  what  then? 

"  I  will  die  before  I  return  to  him,"  she  says  aloud, 
as  she  flies  breathlessly  on.  "  No  law,  no  power  on 
earth  shall  compel  me ;  I  will  never  go  back — never  !" 
She  is  panting  and  breathless  with  her  haste  ;  once  or 
twice  a  passing  "  guardian  of  the  night  "  tries  to  stop  and 
accost  her,  but  she  is  past  like  a  flash  before  he  can 
frame  the  words.  She  may  be  pursued — she  does  not 
know — they  will  be  fleet  walkers  who  will  overtake  her 
to-night.  At  last,  without  harm  or  molestation,  but 
spent,  gasping,  fainting  with  fatigue,  she  unlocks  her 
door,  and  drops  in  a  heap  on  the  little  parlor  sofa. 

Jemima  Ann  is  in  bed  and  asleep  ;  she  is  not  expected 
back  until  to-morrow.  She  does  not  wake  her,  she  lies 
there  in  a  sort  of  stupor  of  exhaustion,  and  at  last  drops 
asleep.  And  so,  still  sleeping,  when  with  the  morning 
sunshine  Jemima  Ann  rises,  she  finds  her — dressed  as 
she  came  in,  with  the  exception  of  her  hat,  which  lies  on 
the  floor  beside  her.  Her  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
alarm,  faint  though  it  is,  arouses  Dolores — she  sits  up 
in  a  bewildered  way,  and  looks  with  wild  eyes  at  her 
friend. 

"Jemima,"  she  cries,  "he  has  come." 

"  Lor  !"  says  Jemima  Ann,  and  sits  down  flat.  She 
needs  no  antecedent  to  the  pronoun  ;  there  is  but  one  he 
for  these  two  in  the  universe — their  arch  enemy. 
"Lord's  sake  !  Miss  Snowball,  you  never  mean  that  !" 

"  I  saw  him  last  night.  He  was  at  Mrs.  Pettingill's 
party.  I  got  up  and  fled.  I  ran  out  of  the  house  at  two 
in  the  morning,  and  never  stopped  to  draw  breath,  it 


440  ALL    THINGS    EVEN 

seems  to  me,  until  I  fell  down  here.  Jemima — oh^ 
Jemima  !  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  Lord  sake  !"  exclaims  Jemima  Ann  again,  stunned. 
Maid  and  mistress  sit  gazing  blankly  and  fearfully  at 
each  other — altogether  stupefied  by  the  magnitude  of  the 
blow. 

"  We  must  leave  here,  Jemima — we  must  go  to-day. 
He  is  here  to  search  for  me  ;  he  will  never  rest  until  he 
finds  me.  We  must  fly  again.  And  we  have  been  so 
happy  here,"  she  says,  despairingly. 

But  Jemima's  wits  are  beginning  to  return. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Miss  Snowball,"  she  says  ;  "let  us 
think.  It's  of  no  use  flying — this  big  city  is  the  safest 
place  we  can  hide  in,  it  seems  to  me.  If  he  finds  us  out 
under  false  names  here,  in  a  crowded  part  of  the  town 
like  this,  why,  he  will  find  us  go  where  we  may.  I  don't 
believe  in  flying  ;  it  ain't  a  mite  o'  good.  Let  us  just 
stay  here,  and  face  it  out." 

"  Jemima  Ann,  it  would  kill  me  to  see  him,  I  think — 
just  that." 

"  Bless  you,  my  deary,  no,  it  wouldn't.  It  takes  a 
sight  more  to  kill  us  than  we  reckon  for.  Besides,  you 
can  refuse  to  see  him — you  can  fly,  you  know,  when  it 
comes  to  that.  What  is  he  goin'  to  do  to  you  ?  Sir  Vane 
Valentine  may  go  to  grass  !  This  is  a  free  country,  I 
guess  ;  there  ain't  no  lor  as  ever  I  heerd  on  to  make  a 
wife  go  back  to  a  husband  as  ill-treated  her,  if  she's  a 
mind  to  work  for  her  own  livin'.  He  can't  carry  you  off 
like  they  do  in  stories,  and  you  wouldn't  stay  carried 
off  if  he  did.  We  can't  run  away — we  ain't  got  no  money, 
and  we're  settled  here  like,  and  making  a  nice  livin'.  We 
ain't  goin'  to  let  Sir  Vane  Valentine  spile  all  that.  Xo, 
Miss  Snowball,  my  pretty,  don't  you  be  skeered — lie 
won't  find  us,  and  if  he  does  then  we'll  clear.  /  will 
stand  my  ground,  and  face  him  if  you  will  let  me,  and 
that  for  Sir  Vane  Valentine  !  I  ain't  married  to  him, 
thank  the  Lord,  and  he  can't  carry  things  with  such  a 


ALL    THINGS    EVEN.  44, 

high  hand  here  in  New  York  city,  as  over  there  at  Val- 
entine. But  I  don't  believe  he'll  find  us  anyhow.  No 
one  knows  our  real  names,  and  the  Pettingills  don't 
know  where  you  live.  Don't  you  be  scared,  Miss  Snow- 
ball, my  deary.  I  don't  believe  he'll  ever  find  us  out  at 
all." 

Jemima  Ann  has  reason  on  her  side,  and  as  she  says, 
they  cannot  afford  to  fly.  Whatever  comes,  they  must  per- 
force stay  and  face  it  out.  So  Dolores  lets  her  first  panic  be 
soothed,  and  yields.  But  it  is  settled  she  is  to  go  on  the 
street  no  more  at  all  for  the  present,  and  their  doors  are 
to  be  kept  locked  to  all  the  world. 

"I  shall  lose  Miss  Pettingill,  and  all  my  other  pupils," 
she  says,  mournfully  ;  "and  I  had  so  much  trouble  get- 
ting them.  I  hardly  know  what  we  are  to  do,  Jemima 
Ann.  Mrs.  Pettingill  and  Blanche  will  think  I  must 
suddenly  have  gone  crazy." 

"Ihey  must  think  what  they  please  for  awhile,  I 
reckon.  In  a  week  or  two  I  might  go  up  early  some 
morning  with  a  note  from  you,  to  say  you  was  kind  o' 
ailin*  or  somethin';  for  gettin'  along,  we  will  get  along, 
never  you  fear.  I  have  saved  something,  and  I  mean  to 
work  double  tides  until  you  get  about  again.  The  worst 
thing  about  it  all  is,  that  you  will  fret,  and  the  confine- 
ment to  these  close  rooms  will  hurt  your  health." 

But  fretting  and  confinement  must  be  borne.  And 
now  for  the  second  time  a  dreary  interval  of  waiting  and 
watching,  and  daily  dread  sets  in.  Behind  the  closed 
blinds  Dolores  sits  all  day  long,  anxiously  peering  into 
the  street,  drawing  back  whenever  a  passer-by  chances 
to  glance  up,  seeing  in  every  man  who  looks  at  the  house 
a  detective  on  her  track.  Jemima  Ann  does  her  errands 
at  the  earliest  hour  of  opening  the  grocer's,  and  sews  by 
her  mistress's  side  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  Dolores  essays 
to  help  her,  but  it  is  little  better  than  an  effort ;  thcdivad 
of  discovery  paralyzes  all  her  energies.  She  cannot  settle 
to  sew,  to  read,  to  practice  ;  she  sits  through  the  long 
19* 


442  ALL    THINGS    EVEN. 

hours,  silent,  anxious,  pale.  It  is  an  unreasoning  dread, 
morbid  and  out  of  proportion  with  its  cause  ;  she  simply 
feels,  as  she  has  said,  that  if  she  meets  him  she  will  die. 
Five  days  go  by,  very,  very  slowly,  but  without  a 
word  or  sign  of  discovery.  Then  a  shock  all  at  once 
comes. 

It  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  letter,  delivered  by  the 
postman,  and  addressed  to  Mrs.  Trillon.  She  turns  quite 
white  as  she  receives  it.  "  Hast  thou  found  me,  oh,  mine 
enemy  ?"  is  the  cry  of  her  heart.  No  one  knows  her  ad- 
dress ;  this  is  the  first  letter  addressed  to  her  since  she 
has  been  in  New  York.  It  is  in  a  man's  hand — not  her 
husband's,  but  what  of  that  ? — and  is  correctly  directed 
both  as  to  street  and  number.  She  sits  with  it  in  her 
hand,  in  a  tremor  of  nervous  affright  that  shakes  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

"  Open  it,  my  deary,  don't  you  be  afraid.  Lor — Sir 
Vane  Valentine  can't  eat  you.  Open  it ;  he  ain't  inside 
the  envelope,  wherever  he  is,"  says,  cheerily,  Jemima  Ann. 

She  obeys,  with  shaking  fingers.  It  is  dated  New 
York,  and  the  day  before.  She  glances  at  the  signature, 
and  utters  a  cry,  for  the  name  at  the  end  is  George 
Valentine. 

"  Read  it,  Miss  Snowball — read  it  out  aloud  !"  cries 
Jemima,  in  a  transport  of  curiosity,  and  Dolores  obeys. 

It  is  short. 

"NEW  YORK,  March  27,  18 — . 

"  MY  DEAR  SNOWBALL  : — I  may  still  call  you  by  the  old 
name,  may  I  not? — the  dear  little  pet  name  by  which  '  M. 
Paul '  has  so  often  called  you.  It  will  not  alarm  you, 
surely,  to  know  that  I  am  here,  and  have  found  you? 
My  dear  child,  you  know  you  may  trust  your  old  friend. 
I  have  crossed  the  ocean  in  search  of  you,  and  am  most 
desirous  of  seeing  you  at  once.  I  will  call  iipon  you 
this  afternoon.  I  send  this  as  an  avant-courier,  to  break 
the  shock  of  the  surprise.  You  are  living  in  strictest 
seclusion,  I  know  but  you  will  see  me,  I  feel  sure.  Are 


ALL    THINGS    EVEN.  443 

you  aware  that  Vane  Valentine  is  also  in  this  city,  also 
in  search  of  you  ?     He  has  not  found  you,  and  departs,  I 
am  told,  in  a  few  days.     You  need  not  fear  him,  I  think. 
At  present  he  is  about  starting  with  one  Mr.  Lionel  Col- 
bert on  the  trial  trip  of  the  latter  gentleman's  yacht  down 
the  bay.     I  shall  call  at  your  lodging  at  three  this  after- . 
noon.     Until  then,  my  dear  Snowball,  I  am,  as  ever, 
"  Your  faithful  friend,  GEORGE  VALENTINE." 

"Thank  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies!"  ejaculates, 
piously,  Jemima  Ann. 

"  But  do  you  believe  it  ?"  asks  Dolores,  the  glad  flush 
fading  from  her  face,  and  the  anxious  contraction  grow- 
ing habitual  there,  bending  her  brows  ;  "  it  may  be  a  ruse. 
It  may  be  the  work  of  Sir  Vane  himself,  or  of  his  emis- 
saries. Oh,  Jemima  !  I  am  afraid — afraid  !" 

"Now,  Miss  Snowball,  there  ain't  no  reason.  That 
sounds  like  an  honest  letter,  and  I  believe  it.  At  three 
this  afternoon  I'll  be  on  the  watch  down  at  the  front 
door,  and  if  it  ain't  Mr.  Valentine — well,  then,  the  party 
that  comes  will  have  some  trouble  in  getting  into  this 
room.  Don't  you  be  afeared.  Just  put  on  your  prettjest 
dress  and  perk  up  a  bit,  for  you  do  look  that  pale  and 
thin,  Miss  Snowball,  that  it's  quite  heart-breakin'  to  see 
you  ;  and  trust  to  me  to  keep  him  out  if  it's  the  wrong 
man.  If  it's  the  right  one,  as  I  feel  sure  it  is,  all  our 
troubles  is  at  an  end.  A  man's  such  a  comfort  at  times 
when  a  body's  in  a  muddle,  and  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I  wonder,"  says  Jemima  Ann,  stitching  away  diligently, 
and  keeping  her  eyes  on  her  work,  "if  Mr.  Rayney  is 
with  him  ?" 

There  is  a  sound  as  of  a  sudden  catching  of  the  breath 
at  mention  of  that  name,  but  no  reply.  Indeed,  Dolores 
hardly  speaks  again  for  hours.  She  sits  silently  at  her 
post  by  the  window,  in  a  fever  of  alternate  hope  and 
dread,  watching  the  passers-by.  She  makes  a  toilet,  as 
Jemima  Ann  has  suggested,  she  tries  to  read,  tries  to 


444  ALL    THINGS    EVEN. 

play,  walks  up  and  down,  and  has  worked  herself  into  a 
feverish  and  flushed  headache  long  before  three  o'clock. 

It  strikes  at  last.     She  resumes  her  place  by  the  win- 
dow, and  clenches  her  hands  together  in  her  lap,  as  if  to 
hold  herself  still  by  force.    At  the  moment  the  bell  rings. 
"There  !"  cries  Jemima  Ann. 

Both  start  to  their  feet.  Jemima  Ann  hurries  down 
stairs,  locking  the  door  behind  her,  and  Dolores  stands 
pale,  breathless,  her  hand  still  unconsciously  clenched, 
her  heart  beating  to  suffocation.  It  seems  to  her  the  su- 
premest  hour  of  her  life.  She  hears  a  joyful  cry  from 
Jemima,  and  the  maid  rushes  joyously  in. 

"Oh,  Miss  Snowball  !  dear  Miss  Snowball!  it's  all 
right — it's  him  !  it's  him  !" 

And  then  before  her,  tall,  strong,  handsome,  bearded, 
resolute,  good  to  see,  comes  George  Valentine. 

The  quick  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  sudden  joy,  takes 
away  her  last  remnant  of  strength.  She  holds  out  both 
hands,  and  would  fall,  so  dizzy  does  she  grow,  but  that 
she  is  in  his  arms,  held  against  his  loyal,  loving  heart. 

"  My  little  Snowball !  my  dear  little  girl  !'*  he  says, 
and  stoops  and  kisses  the  pale,  changed  face,  mere 
touched  by  that  change  than  he  cares  to  show. 

"  I — how  foolish  I  am,"  she  says,  and  laughs,  with  eyes 
that  brim  over  ;  "forgive  me,  M.  Paul.  I  have  been 
wretched  and  nervous  lately,  and  the  shock  of  seeing 

you " 

She  breaks  off,  sinks  back  in  her  chair,  covers  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and,  for  a  little,  utterly  breaks  down. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  says,  "  do  not  mind  me, 
pray.  I  will  be  all  right  in  a  moment.  Only  it  so  brings 
back  the  old  times,  and — oh  !  how  good,  how  good  it  is 
to  see  a  friendly  face  again." 

"  That  is  a  pleasant  hearing,"  he  says,  cheerily  ;  "  so 
you  were  afraid  my  letter  was  all  a  ruse  ?  My  dear 
child,  I  have  known  for  over  a  week  you  were  here.  If 
you  had  been  discovered  by  ihatotker,  I  was  always  ready 


ALL     THINGS    EVEN.  44S 

to  come  to  the  rescue.  My  poor  little  Snowball!  Life 
has  gone  hardly  with  you,  I  fear,  since  I  saw  you  last." 

Tears,  hard  to  hold  back,  spring  to  her  eyes  once 
more  ;  they  fill,  they  overflow. 

"I  am  very  weak  ;  I  never  used  to  be  a  crying  ani- 
mal," she  says  at  last,  trying  to  laugh  through  the  fall- 
ing drops.  "  Yes,  life  has  gone  hard,  but  I  did  not  mind 
so  greatly  until  I  found  him  here  after  me.  We  were 
getting  along  so  nicely,  I  was  almost  quite  reconciled 
before  that.  But,  M.  Paul — I  may  call  you  by  the  old 
name,  may  I  not  ? — I  would  rather  die  than  go  back. 
You  will  not  let  him  force  me,  will  you  ?"  she  says. 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  shall  not  go  back — no,"  he  an- 
swers, "  no  one  shall  force  you  against  your  in- 
clinations. You  have  nothing  to  fear,  I  think.  He  cer- 
tainly has  been  in  search  of  you  ;  he  certainly,  also,  has 
not  as  yet  found  you.  He  traced  you,  as  I  did,  to  Lon- 
don, to  Havre,  to  this  city  ;  but  I  have  been  more  fortu- 
nate than  he  here,  and  have  discovered  you.  He  is  not 
in  New  York  to-day.  The  yacht  started  on  her  trial  trip 
this  morning,  to  be  absent  a  week  ;  so  your  enforced  im- 
prisonment may  end  for  the  present.  I  mean  to  take  you 
for  a  drive  this  afternoon — oh,  you  must  !  I  will  have  no 
refusal.  I  am  quite  alone  in  New  York  ;  our  good 
friend,  Rene,  is  in  Rome,  back  at  his  work.  He  wanted 
to  come.  For  obvious  causes,  it  was  better  he  should 
not  accompany  me.  I  dispatched  to  him  the  mo- 
ment I  discovered  you.  I  am  to  write  to  him  at  length 
to-night.  Have  you  any  messages,  Snowball  ?" 

No  ;  Sr.3vvball  has  none — her  remembrances,  and 
she  is  well — nothing  more. 

"  You  have  done  nothing  in  the  matter  of  your  claim 
to  the  title  and  estate  ?"  she  asks,  after  a  pause. 

"  Nothing  !  and  mean  to  do  nothing,  for  the  present 
at  least.  Rene  told  you  that,  you  know.  The  exposure 
of  my  life  tc  the  world  would  be  no  easy  thing  for  a  thin- 
skinned  fellow  like  me  to  bear  ;  I  doubt  if  any  fortune 


446  ALL     THINGS    EVEN. 

could  compensate  for  it.  There  would  be  a  prolonged 
contest,  no  end  of  names  of  the  living  and  the  dead 
dragged  through  the  mud  of  a  public  court  and  a  con- 
foundedly public  press.  No  ;  Sir  Vane  must  remain  Sir 
Vane,  I  suppose,  until  my  moral  courage  grows  a  good 
deal  stronger.  Now  run,  and  wrap  up  ;  it  is  a  jewel  of 
a  da}'.  Your  imprisonment  has  lasted  long  enough  ;  we 
are  going  for  a  drive  to  the  Park,  in  this  fine  frosty  air." 

She  obeys.  Oh  !  the  relief  of  feeling  her  great  enemy 
is  no  longer  in  the  city — the  relief  of  feeling  she  is  free 
to  go  out  once  more. 

"  And  I  will  have  supper  ready  when  you  come  back," 
calls  after  them  Jemima  Ann. 

It  is  an  afternoon  never  to  be  forgotten,  all  the  more 
enjoyable  for  the  gloom,  and  terror,  and  hiding,  that  have 
gone  before.  Dolores  enjoys  it  thoroughly  ;  the  fleet 
horses,  the  rapid  motion,  the  sparkling  air,  the  gay 
equipages,  the  bright,  sun-gilded  park,  the  crisp,  cheery 
talk,  the  deep,  mellow  laugh  of  her  friend. 

For  the  next  two  days  life  takes  in  its  brightest  col- 
ors, fear  departs,  care  is  thrown  off.  Dolores  lives  in  the 
present  and  enjoys  it  thoroughly.  "  M.  Paul "  comes 
daily,  and  the  lost  bloom  of  happiness  seems  to  return  at 
his  bidding,  as  if  by  magic. 

But  on  the  third  day  he  does  not  come.  The  forenoon, 
the  afternoon,  pass,  and  do  not  bring  him.  Dolores 
grows  alarmed — so  little  startles  her  now — when,  just  at 
dusk,  he  presents  himself,  but  with  a  slowness  of  step  and 
a  gravity  of  face  all  unusual. 

"  Something  has  happened  !"  she  cries,  in  quick  alarm. 
"  Sir  Vane  has  returned  !" 

"  Sir  Vane  has  returned — yes." 

He  stands  holding  both  her  hands,  looking  down  at 
her  with  his  grave,  dark  eyes. 

"Dolores,  dear  child,  there  is  nothing  to  wear  that 
frightened  face  for.  He  has  returned,  but  not  to  trouble 


ALL     THINGS    EVEN.  447 

you.  I  doubt  if  he  will  ever  trouble  you  or  ar.y  one  more. 
An  accident  has  happened  to  the  yacht." 

She  stands  silent,  pale,  looking  at  him,  waiting  for 
what  is  to  come  next. 

"It  was  last  night — it  was  very  foggy,  you  may  re- 
member. One  of  the  great  passenger  steamers  of  the 
Sound  ran  her  down  and  sunk  her.  Three  of  the  seven 
on  board  were  drowned — the  others  were  picked  up  by 
the  steamer's  boats.  Young  Colbert,  the  owner  of  the 
yacht,  is  among  the  lost,  and  from  what  is  said,  I  think 
his  guest,  Sir  Vane." 

She  sits  down,  feeling  suddenly  sick  and  faint,  un- 
able to  speak  a  word. 

"  The  bodies  have  just  been  recovered  ;  they  lie  as 
yet  at  a  water-side  hotel,  awaiting  identification.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  see,  and,  it  may  be,  to  identify  your  hus- 
band. Try  not  to  be  overcome  by  this  shock.  I  will 
keep  you  in  suspense  as  short  a  time  as  I  can.  Once  I 
have  seen  the  bodies,  I  will  return  here." 

He  departs.  It  is  a  bright,  starry  twilight,  the  street 
lamps  are  twinkling  in  the  April  dusk,  as  he  strides 
rapidly  along.  He  hails  a  coupe  presently,  and  is  driven 
to  his  destination.  He  finds  a  crowd  already  congre- 
gated, and  much  excitement  ;  the  police  on  hand  to  pre- 
serve order.  He  makes  his  way  through  the  throng  to 
the  ghastly  room  in  which  the  three  stark  bodies  a^  vet 
lie.  The  gas-light  floods  the  dead,  upturned  faces  ;  the 
drowned  men  lie  side  by  side,  awaiting  removal.  The 
first  is  a  slender,  fair-haired,  fair-mustached  young  man 
— Lionel  Colbert.  The  second  is  a  seaman  ;  the  third — 
he  draws  back  and  holds  his  breath.  There  before  him 
lies  his  enemy — the  man  who  has  hated  him,  who  has 
worn  his  title  and  used  his  wealth,  who  has  done  his 
best  to  break  little  Snowball's  heart — Vane  Valentine, 
stark  and  dead  ! 


448  MY    QUEEN! 

\ 

CHAPTER    XL. 

"  ERE  I  CEASE  TO  LOVE  HER,   MY  QUEEN  !" 

T  is  a  May  day,  cloudless,  flawlesss,  sunny, 
breezy.  Isle  Perdrix  lies  like  an  emerald  in 
its  sapphire  setting,  in  the  dancing  waves  of 
Bay  Chalette. 

It  is  yet  early  morning — not  quite  nine  o'clock,  but, 
even  at  this  matutinal  hour,  the  shrill-pitched  French- 
Canadian  voice  of  old  Ma'am  Weesy  rises  on  the  sunny 
air  in  accents  of  keen  reproach.  The  yellow-painted 
kitchen  is  one  flood  of  eastern  sunshine  ;  the  rows  of 
burnished  tin  and  copper  make  the  beholder  wink  again  ; 
two  huge  family  cats  bask  in  front  of  the  polished  cook- 
ing-stove ;  pots  of  geraniums  and  pink  roses  on  the  win- 
dow-sills scent  the  air  ;  a  fragrance  as  of  tea  and  toast  is 
in  the  atmosphere. 

Unsoftened  by  all  these  mellowing  influences,  Ma'am 
Weesy  stands,  with  hands  on  hips,  and  pours  forth  a 
torrent  of  reproach  in  mingled  French  and  English. 
Jemima  Ann  stands  near,  and  listens  and  laughs.  The 
culprit,  out  in  the  hop-wreathed  porch,  tries — also  in  for- 
eign accents — to  make  himself  heard. 

"Sure,  thin,  'twasn't  my  fault — that  I  may  nivir  av  it 
was,  ould  Wasy  !  It  was  all  the  doin'  an'  the  divilment 
av  Masther  Johnny.  Ax  himself,  av  ye  don't  b'lave  me. 
There  he  is  now,  foreninst  ye,  an'  divil  another  word  av 
ye' re  abuse  I'll  take  this  blissid  day,  av  ye  wor  twice  the 
ould  catamoran  ye  are  !" 

With  which  Tim  stamps  away  indignantly,  and  an- 
other manly  form  takes  his  place. 

"  What's  the  row  ?"  demands  this  new-comer  ;  "  what 
the  duse,  Ma'am  Weesy,  are  you  and  old  Tim  kicking  up 
such  a  clatter  about  at  this  time  of  morning  ?" 


MY    QUEEN!  449 

"Ah  !  bon  jour,  M'sieur  Jean  !" 

Instantly  all  trace  of  wrath  vanishes  as  if  by  magic 
from  the  face  of  Ma'am  Weesy  ;  her  coffee-colored  visage 
beams  with  pride  and  joy.  Tim  has  only  forgotten 
madam's  bouquet  after  all,  but  M.  Jean  has  it,  she  fails 
not  to  perceive. 

"-Madam  nearly  ready,  Miss  Hopkins?"  he  says. 

'•  Nearly  ready,  Captain  John;  dressing.  I  will  tell 
her  you  have  come,  and  give  her  her  bouquet." 

"And  7  will  give  you  some  breakfast,  M.  Jean,"  sug- 
gests radiant  Ma'am  Weesy. 

No,  M.  Jean  says,  he  doesn't  want  anything.  His 
appetite  has  deserted  him  this  morning,  it  appears  ;  he 
looks  and  feels  nervous  and  fidgety,  and  keeps  pulling 
out  his  watch  every  few  minutes  and  glancing  at  it  with 
impatient  eyes. 

"  I  wish  it  was  this  time  to-morrow,"  he  growls  in- 
wardly, "  all  the  to-do  over,  and  Inno  and  I—dear  little 
soul  !  fairly  out  on  blue  water,  with  all  the  staring  eyes 
and  gaping  tongues  left  behind.  It's  a  capital  thing  to 
marry  the  girl  of  one's  heart,  no  doubt,  but  it's  a  very 
considerable  bore  getting  the  preliminaries  safely  over. 
I'll  go  down  to  the  beach  and  smoke  a  cigar,  Weesy,"  he 
says  aloud.  "  When  madam  is  ready  call  me,  *,vill  you?" 

For  Dolores — once  Lady  Valentine — is  "madam" 
here,  and  for  the  last  fourteen  months  has  hidden  herself 
and  her  sorrows  and  her  widowhood  in  the  sea-girt  se- 
clusion, so  often  sighed  for,  of  Isle  Perdrix.  George 
Valentine  brought  and  left  her  here  when  he  departed  to 
assert  his  rights,  and  proclaim  his  identity  as  the  next  in 
succession  to  Valentine. 

And  now,  standing  before  the  dressing-glass  in  her 
little  room,  she  is  robing  for  a  bridal,  and  feeling  as  if 
the  past  years  had  dropped  away  from  her  life  like  a  bad 
dream,  and  that  it  is  the  jubilant  girl,  Snowball,  who 
sings  softly  to  herself  and  smiles  back  at  her  own  fair 
image  in  the  mirror.  It  is  John  Macdonald's  wedding. 


450  MY    QUEEN! 

day,  and  Innocente  Desereaux  is  the  bride.  It  is  a  very 
fair  and  girlish  Snowball  who  comes  down  stairs,  pink 
roses  in  her  cheeks  and  starry  brilliance  in  her  eyes — 
a  rose  and  a  star  herself,  as  so  it  seems  to  Captain  John 
Macdonald,  who  catches  a  glimpse  of  this  sunny  vision 
and  comes  in. 

"  By  Jove  J"  he  says,  and  stands  and  looks  at  her,  "if 
Inno  had  not  done  for  me  before  you  came — well,  it's  of 
no  use  talking  now  of  the  might-have-been's.  You  look 
like  a  rosebud  yourself,  Snowball — queen  lily  and  rose  in 
one — and  will  outshine  my  Inno  herself,  it  you  don't  take 
care.  Nothing  else  in  St.  Gildas,  of  course,  will  have  a 
ghost  of  a  chance  near  you." 

"  What  a  charming  courtier  you  are,  Johnny,"  retorts 
"  madam  "  derisively.  "  Such  delicate  flattery,  such 
subtle  compliment !  If  you  cannot  acquit  yourself  more 
creditably  than  this,  sir,  you  had  better  leave  it  to  those 
who  understand  the  business.  Outshine  your  Inno,  in- 
deed !  You  know  very  well  if  the  Venus  Aphrodite  rose 
from  the  surf  there  this  moment,  you  would  consider  the 
goddess  rather  a  plain-looking  young  woman  compared 
to  your  Inno.  Stand  off  a  little  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

John  Macdonald  does  as  he  is  bid,  and  laughingly 
"  stands  at  ease,"  and  folds  his  arms  and  holds  himself 
erect  for  inspection. 

"  I  really  do  not  think  Inno  need  be  ashamed  of  you 
much  this  morning,"  she  says,  "only  I  hope  you  won't 
flounder  about  and  be  awkward,  Johnny,  and  drop  the 
ring  and  turn  a  bright  crimson  at  the  wrong  time,  and 
make  a  guy  of  yourself  generally  when  we  get  to  church. 
Pere  Louis  will  be  sure  to  laugh  at  you  if  you  do — you 
know  his  dreadfully  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous  always  ; 
and  with  the  sisterly-motherly  regard  I  have  for  you,  my 
dear  boy,  it  would  pain  me  to  see  the  finger  of  risibility 
pointed  at  you  on  your  wedding-day.  You  will  try  and 
conduct  yourself  rationally  ?"  implores  Dolores. 

"  Yes,  I'll  try,"  says  Captain  Macdonald,  and  laughs  ; 


MY    QUEEN!  45, 

"  with  your  maternal  eye  upon  me,  how  can  I  fail  ?  Ten 
o'clock,  Snowball,"  pulling  out  the  perpetual  watch  ; 
"  look  sharp,  will  you.  'ike  a  dear  girl  ?  Have  you  had 
anything  in  the  way  of  breakfast,  or  will  you  wait  for 
the  breakfast  ?  It  takes  place,  you  know,  at  eleven." 

"I  know.  I  will  not  be  late.  I  will  take  a  cup  of 
tea,  please,  Ma'am  Weesy — nothing  more.  Did  you  " 
— she  asks  this  carelessly,  her  face  averted  while  sipping 
her  tea — "did  you  receive  the  letters  you  looked  for  last 
night  after  I  left— from  M.  Paul,  I  mean  ?" 

"  One  from  M.  Paul — Sir  George  Valentine  rather — 
none  from  Rene.  Sir  George's  letter  is  all  right — what 
might  be  expected  from  such  a  thorough  good  fellow. 
He  will  come — will  be  here  by  the  afternoon  train  (D. 
V.)  to  wish  us  felicity  and  all  that.  But  it  will  be  no 
end  of  a  bore  if  Rene  fails  to  put  in  an  appearance." 

"You  still  hope  then,  that  he  may  come?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  while  there's  life  there's  hope,  as  they 
say,  and  the  very  fact  of  his  not  having  written  encour- 
ages me  in  the  belief  that  he  may  be  on  his  way.  I  haven't 
seen  the  dear  old  boy  for  years;  it  will  spoil  even  my 
wedding-day  if  he  fails  me  now.  Ready  ?  Come  on  then." 

They  go.  As  they  enter  the  boat,  Captain  Macdonald 
takes  from  his  pocket  a  letter,  and  hands  it  to  her. 

"  Valentine's,"  he  says,  "  read  it  as  we  cross.  It  is  a 
capital  letter,  from  the  prince  of  good  fellows,  and  there 
is  a  message  for  you." 

For  M.  Paul  Farrar  is  Sir  George  Valentine  at  last, 
in  sight  of  all  the  world,  and  reigning  Seigneur  of  Manor 
Valentine.  The  great  fortune,  the  old  name,  lost  once 
for  a  woman,  have  been  regained.  His  claim  was  suf- 
ficiently easy  to  prove  ;  many  still  remained  in  Toronto 
who  remembered  George  Valentine  perfectly.  And  soil 
conies  to  pass  that  among  the  prim  old  Queen  Anne  gar- 
dens, up  and  down  the  leafy,  lofty  avenues,  through  the 
empty  echoing  galleries  of  Manor  Valentine,  Sir  George 
walks  and  smokes  and  muses,  alone.  He  is  far  more  of 


452  MY    QUEEN! 

a  favorite  with  the  resident  gentry  than  the  late  baronet 
ever  was  ;  people — women  particularly — think  it  a  pity,  a 
man  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  still  unusually  handsome 
and  attractive,  should  appear  to  think  so  little  of  marry- 
ing and  giving  the  Manor  a  mistress.  But  George  Val- 
entine, smoking  his  solitary  pipe,  and  dreaming  his  own 
dreams  of  future  and  past,  knows  he  will  never  marry — 
his  one  brief,  disastrous  experience  has  put  an  end  for- 
ever to  all  thought  of  that. 

And  yet  through  these  dreams  he  dreams — through 
these  visions  he  sees  arising  in  the  clouds  of  Cavendish 
— there  are  the  faces  of  little  children  brightening  the 
dusky  Manor  rooms;  he  hears  their  gleeful  shouts  up  and 
down  these  deserted  garden  walks,  where  no  childish 
footsteps  have  trodden  for  more  than  half  a  century. 
Sometimes  these  babies  of  his  fancy  look  at  him  with  the 
dark,  solemn,  handsome  eyes  of  Rene  Macdonald,  some- 
times the  long  tresses  that  wave  in  the  wind  have  the 
pale  gold  sheen  of  little  Snowball  Trillon.  But  of  these 
idle  pictures  he  says  nothing,  "patient  waiters  are  no 

losers."     He  bides  his  time  and  hopes. 

******* 

And  now  it  is  eleven,  and  the  bells — wedding-bells — 
are  ringing  out  their  jubilant  peal.  Pere  Louis,  in  sur- 
plice and  stole,  stands  within  the  altar  rails,  and  Captain 
John  Macdonald,  and  pretty  Innocente  Desereaux,  in  her 
glistening  bride's  robe  and  vail,  kneel  to  receive  their 
nuptial  benediction.  It  is  all  over,  a  bride  has  been  given 
away,  and  even  under  the  severe  matrimonial  inspection 
of  "  madame  " — whose  blue  eyes  are  a  trifle  dim,  to  be 
sure — the  bridegroom  has  not  distinguished  himself  by 
any  notable  gaucherie.  It  is  all  well  over,  to  Captain  John's 
unutterable  relief,  for  even  to  a  "  tar  who  plows  the  wa- 
ter "  to  be  the  center  and  focus  of  some  fifty  pairs  of  fem- 
inine eyes  must  be  rather  a  trying  ordeal.  The  break- 
fast is  over,  too,  healths  have  been  drunk,  and  toasts  re- 
sponded to,  and  speeches  made,  and  blushes  blushed,  and 


MY    QUEEN!  453 

tears  wiped  away,  with  smiles  to  chase  them,  and  it  is 
afternoon,  and  nearly  train  time,  and  one  heart  there  is 
Dealing,  beating — ah  !  as  hearts  have  beaten  for  all  time 
— will  beat  still  in  that  day  when  all  time  shall  end. 
Others  discuss  the  coming  arrival,  or  arrivals  it  may  be, 
only  "madame"  says  nothing.  A  deep  permanent  flush 
burns  on  her  cheeks,  a  brilliant  feverish  light  is  in  her 
eyes,  her  pulses  are  throbbing  with  sickening  rapidity  at 
times,  and  then  again  seeming  to  stand  still. 

Will  he  come — will  he  come  ?  Every  feverish  beat 
of  her  heart  seems  beating  out  that  question.  She  has 
not  seen  him  since  that  day,  so  long  ago — oh  !  so  long, 
long  ago — under  the  trees  of  Valentine.  By  which  it  will 
be  seen,  by  all  whom  it  may  concern,  that  it  is  not  Sir 
George  whose  coming,  or  non-coming,  is  setting  her 
nerves  and  pulses  in  this  quiver. 

She  breaks  away  from  it  all,  presently — the  guests, 
the  laughter,  the  music — and  goes  out.  It  is  a  little  out 
of  the  ordinary  routine,  this  wedding — the  day — the  last 
day  for  so  long,  is  spent  by  the  happy  pair  here  among 
their  relatives  and  friends.  This  evening  they  go  on 
board  the  big  ship  waiting  out  there  in  the  stream,  ready 
to  spread  her  white  wings  for  South  America,  the  first 
thing  to-morrow  morning.  The  shriek  of  the  incoming 
train  reaches  Dolores  as  she  steps  out  into  the 
garden.  That  shriek,  listened  for  all  day,  comes  to  her 
like  a  shock  at  last.  She  turns  white  in  the  May 
sunshine,  and  cold — what  if  it  has  not  brought  him  after 
all !  If  it  is  so  she  feels  she  must  bear  it,  just  at  first, 
alone,  not  under  all  those  eyes  in  there,  and  so  she  hur- 
ries on,  and  down,  aimlessly,  to  the  water's  edge.  As  she 
stands  she  can  see  Isle  Perdrix,  its  tall  light-house  pierc- 
ing the  hazy  blue,  its  long  white  strip  of  hard  beach,  the 
srnoke  curling  up  from  the  little  peaceful  cottage.  And 
as  she  stands,  some  one  comes  up  the  path,  and  it  is  Sir 
George  Valentine,  and  alone  ! 

She  sinks  down  on  the  low  garden  wall,  and  covers 


454  MY    QUEEN! 

her  face  with  her  hands.  He  has  not  come  !  At 
last  she  is  alone  with  her  pain.  But,  oh  !  she  has  so 
hoped,  SD  longed  for  his  coming,  so  hungered  for  the 
sight  of  his  face,  the  sound  of  his  voice.  All  her  life 
she  has  loved  him  and  known  it  not — it  seems  to  her 
she  has  never  known  how  she  has  loved  him  until  this 
bitter  hour.  "  Rene — my  love — Rene  !"  she  says,  and 
stretches  out  her  arms  passionately  ;  "  why  have  you  not 
come  ?" 

Have  her  words  evoked  him?  A  hurried  step,  a 
voice,  a  call,  "  Snowball !"  a  voice  that  would  call  her 
back  from  the  dead  almost  it  seems  to  her,  in  the  wild, 
incredulous  joy  of  that  moment.  "  Dolores — my 
darling  !"  the  voice  says.  And  it  is  Rene  who  stands 
before  her.  "  Dolores  !  my  own,  my  dearest !  Carissima 
mia!  we  meet  at  last!"  he  cries. 

She  slips  from  him,  and  sits  down  again  on  the 
garden  wall,  dizzily.  Joy,  rapture,  amaze  fill  her. 
What  she  says  is  in  a  weak  voice  : 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  going  to  come." 

He  laughs,  and  seats  himself  beside  her,  possessing 
himself  of  the  two  small,  fluttering  hands  in  a  strong, 
close  clasp. 

"Because  Valentine  came  in  first  alone?  I  met  old 
Tim  at  the  gate,  and  of  course  had  to  stop  a  minute  and 
shake  hands  with  the  dear  old  fellow.  I  just  glanced  in 
the  parlor,  kissed  the  bride,  congratulated  the  bride- 
groom, inquired  for  you,  and  was  directed  here.  I  came 
— I  saw — I — fuive  I  conquered  ?  Snowball,  my  little 
love,  my  life's  darling,  how  good  it  seems  to  sit  here 
beside  you,  to  look  at  you,  to  listen  to  you  once  more  !' 

"  I  really  thought  you  were  not  coming!"  In  this 
supreme  hour  it  is  all  Dolores,  ever  fluent  and  ready,  can 
find  to  say.  But,  oh  !  the  rapture,  the  unspeakable  glad- 
ness that  fills  her  heart  as  she  sits. 

"Thought  I  was  not  coming,"  laughs  Rene  again, 
"ammo,  mia,  it  has  been  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  com- 


MY    QUEEN!  455 

ing  any  time  the  past  year.  I  held  myself  by  force- 
sheer  force  of  will — away.  It  was  too  soon,  out  of  con- 
sideration for  you,  but  you  do  not  know,  you  never  can 
know,  what  the  effort  cost  me.  And  those  letters,  few 
and  far  between,  formal  and  friendly,  I  used  to  tear  up  a 
dozen  drafts  of  each,  in  which  my  heart  would  creep  out 
at  the  point  of  my  pen.  Thought  I  was  not  coming  ! 
Oh  !  you  might  have  known  me  better  than  that.  And 
now  I  have  come,  and  for  you,  my  long  lost  love,  never 
to  leave  you  again — to  take  you  with  me,  my  own  for- 
ever, when  I  go." 

What  Ts  Dolores,  is  any  one,  to  say  to  such  impetuous 
wooing  as  his  ?  It  sweeps  away  all  before  it. 

Rene,  silent  habitually,  can  talk,  it  seems,  when  lie 
likes. 

"  I  have  the  programme  all  arranged.  Our  wedding 
takes  place — well,  you  shall  name  the  day,  of  course — but 
in  June  sometime,  and  there  is  to  be  no  talk  of  elaborate 
trousseau  or  delay,  because  I  have  neither  the  time  nor 
inclination  to  listen.  \Ve  will  be  married  in  the  little 
church  over  there,  and  Pere  Louis  shall  perform  the 
ceremony.  Then  we  go  to  Valentine  for  July  and 
August,  to  Paris  for  September  and  the  autumn,  and 
back  to  Rome,  our  home,  Carina,  in  the  early  winter.  I 
have  it  all  arranged,  you  understand,  and  if  you  know 
any  just  or  lawful  reason  why  it  may  not  be  carried  out, 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  state  it  now,  or  forever  after 
hold  your  peace." 

"  Some  one  is  singing.  Listen "  is  Dolores'  still 

inconsequent  reply  ;  "it  is  Inno — has  she  not  a  charm- 
ing voice?" 

Through  the  open  windows  the  tender  refrain  of  the 
much  sung  love-song.  "  My  Queen,"  comes  to  th« 
happy  lovers  sitting  here. 

"  When  and  how  shall  I  earliest  meet  her  ? 
What  are  the  w<»rcls  that  she  first  will  say  ? 


45*  MY    QUEEN! 

By  what  name  shall  I  learn  to  greet  her  ? 

I  know  not  now  :  it  will  come  some  day. 
With  this  self-same  sunlight  shining  upon  her. 

Shining  down  on  her  ringlets  sheen, 
She  is  standing  somewhere — she  I  will  honor, 

She  that  I  wait  lor — my  queen,  my  queen  ! 

"  She  must  be  courteous,  she  must  be  holy, 

Pure,  sweet,  and  tender,  the  girl  I  love  ; 
Whether  her  birth  be  humble  or  lowly, 

I  care  no  more  than  the  angels  above. 
And  I'll  give  my  heart  to  my  lady's  keeping. 

And  ever  her  strength  on  mine  shall  lean, 
And  the  stars  shall  fall  and  the  saints  be  weeping, 

Ere  I  cease  to  love  her — my  queen,  my  queen  !" 

• 

"  And  all  this  time,"  says  Rene,  "  I  have  not  asked  you 
once,  if  you  love  me,  my  queen  ?" 

Who  is  it  talks  of  brilliant  flashes  of  silence?  Dolores 
does  not  answer — in  words — and  Rene  does  not  repeat 
his  question.  They  rise  as  the  sweet  song  ends,  and 
turn  to  go  back  to  the  house  ;  and  who  needs  words 
when  hearts  are  filled  with  bliss  ?  For  love  is  strong, 
and  youth  is  sweet,  and  both  are  theirs,  and  they  are  to- 
gether to  part  no  more. 


THE   END. 


